SPRING COMES TO CHICAGO



Spring comes late to Chicago, if at all.

When it is in the 50s in the suburbs, it is in the 30s or 40s in the city.

Then, one day, out of the blue, it will be 90 degrees. It is like Satan flips a switch, and winter disappears.

This is partially because of Lake Michigan, which is still cold from winter and takes forever to warm up. Hence the meteorological phrase "cooler near the lake." As in, "Today it will be 72 - cooler near the lake." (In the summer and fall, while the rest of the metro area is cooling off, it's warmer near the lake,)

Everyone in Chicago figures this out sooner or later.

Well, perhaps not everyone.

On Thursday the forecast was for the 60s.

It did not reach 60 in the city - yet still some teenagers and insane people frolicked outside in t-shirts.

Each night it goes back down to the 30s or 40s.

Yet on Thursday there was no heat in the apartment.

(According to the Chicago heating ordinance, the heat should be on til June 1).

So guess who called the LL to complain.

He'd turned it off.

(Actually, he had the fellow who lives in his old unit turn it off, "because the forecast was for 60." And I had to explain to the LL, who often mentions that he lived in this building for 30 years, that the city is a good ten degrees cooler than the suburbs. The fellow in the unit was supposed to turn the heat back on that night, but apparently came home late from work. This fellow is the LL's girlfriend's son and lives in his old unit - the LL having relocated a posh suburb last year. The LL controls the heat, which is on an elaborate timing system, by calling the fellow and telling him what to do. I imagine a wall filled with analog dials and old-fashioned thermometers, a demon at the controls. Anyway there is clearly a heat problem in the building, and the LL promised to put the thermostat in my apartment (the coldest one). That was a over month ago. Despite repeated reminders, nothing has happened. Think he'll actually do it? Don't bet on it).

The heat came on 30 minutes later. But the way it works in my unit is that nothing happens the first few times it cycles through. Only after two hours do all the coils on each radiator heat up, and by then I was asleep. (Think I'll be here next winter? Don't bet on it).


* * *


Friday it hit 70 in the suburbs, and in the city.

Everyone was out in their t-shirts and saris, buzzing about like insects.

(You have not lived til you have seen a gentleman in a thick mustache and Cubs hat walking down Devon Avenue with his Punjabi dress-and-headscarf-clad wife).

The air smelled clean and new - despite last year's garbage strewn here, there and everywhere.

Even the flowers began to open up.

And I thought I may last here a few more months after all.

Of course the temperature went back down to 40 that night.

Yet to my pleasant surprise the heat came on, unbidden.


* * *

The forecast this morning was 42, so after practicing I bundled up, got on the blue Schwinn and rode to teach at the nearby church (feeling a bit like Sheshadri, who rides a similar beat-up bike to the Mandala in Mysore).

But it was already in the 60s.

A couple of neighbors were in their muddy yards, talking in shirtsleeves.

And outside the church I saw and smelled flowers - actual flowers.





* * *

Here is an excerpt from Campbell McGrath's 1996 poem

"Spring Comes to Chicago"

All through those final, fitful weeks we walked off the restlessness of our
daily expectancy on the avenues of sun-hunger and recalcitrant slush.

When would that big fat beautiful baby

blue first day of spring arrive?

So we strolled the backstreets and boulevards to consider the clouds and
drink some decaf and escape the press of solicitous voices, gingerly, leaving
feathers unruffled, like that first, fearless pair of mallards coasting the lake's
archipelagoes of melting ice. We walked to the movies, again and again -
Eddie Murphy at the Biograph, Orson Welles amid the Moorish splendor of
the Music Box - varying our route until we knew every block in the
neighborhood, every greystone and three-flat, every Sensei sushi bar and
Michaoqueno flower stall.

We walked to Ho Wah Garden and the Ostoneria and over to Becky's for
deep-dish pizza;

to Manny's for waffles on mornings of aluminum rain;

the German butcher for bratwurst, the Greek bakery for elephant ears, the
7-11 for cocktail onions to satisfy Elizabeth's idiosyncratic cravings.

We walked until our fears resurfaced and then we ate our fears.

We walked ourselves right out of winter into precincts we knew and those
we didn't and some of the city kept as private enclaves for itself, a certain
statue, a street of saris, an oasis of cobbled lanes amid the welter of industry
where suddenly the forsythia is in lightening-fierce flower, sudden as lilac, as
bells, as thunder rolling in from the pains, sky a bruised melon spawning
ocean-green hailstones to carry our rusted storm butters away in an
avalanche of kernaled ice plastered with bankrolls of last year's leaves.

Behold the daffodil, behold the crocus!

Behold the awakened, the reborn, the already onrushing furious and
blooming:

violets overgrown in the lawn gone back to prairie,

some trumpet-flowered vine exuding sweet ichor upon the vacant house
across the street,

dandelions blown to seed

and the ancient Japanese widows who stoop to gather their vinegar-bitter
stems.

That final morning we clear the cobwebs and crack the storm windows to
let the breeze take shelter in our closets and to bask all day in its muddy,
immutable odor. Elizabeth naps in a chair by the window, attuned to the
ring of a distant carrillon, matins and lauds, while down the block an
unnumbered hoard of rollerblades and bicycles propel their passengers like
locusts assembled at the toll of some physiological clock, the ancient
correlation of sap and sunlight, equinoctial sugar and blood. The big elm
has begun its slow adumbration of fluted leaflets and buds on branch tips,
percussive nubs and fine-veined tympani, a many-fingered symphony
tuning up.....

_____

*The cover for McGrath's book, above, is my favorite book cover of all time -except for P.D. Eastman's Go,Dog, Go!

FUNNY OR TOO RISQUé?









I say it's funny.

The editor says it's too risqué.

What do you say?






(Mula Bandha is an energy lock used in yoga. It's located at the perenium, between the anus and the genitals, and is engaged by drawing that area inward and upward. It can be difficult to locate).

THE CLAPTON OF KIRTAN





That's what Catesy calls Krishna Das, who will lead kirtan tomorrow night (April 11) at the Irish American Heritage Center.

He may look like Eric Clapton, but sound-wise he reminds me of Nick Cave.

Kirtan is call-and-response devotional chanting. It is a form of bhakti yoga - considered by many to be one of the easier paths to enlightenment. Dharma Mittra recommends singing to the lord to curb overeating.

Kirtan also helps cure a litany of other ills - including obsessive thoughts - and unleashes a sense of inner bliss.

Unless the kirtan-wallah really sucks - and KD is the best, hands down - it's hard to leave feeling worse than when you came in.

Ticket info here.

I'M OUTTA HERE - AND THIS TIME I MEAN IT!

Mayor Daley just announced that he's going to privatize dog parks.*

First, they privatized the Chicago Skyway bridge.

Then they privatized the parking meters. We are paying something like $4 per hour to park on our own streets!

Plans are in the works to privatize Midway Airport for $2.52 billion.

And now the dog parks.*

This privatization brings in a large chunk of money for the city, which uses it to cover budget shortfalls and who knows what else.

(What they don't use it for is covering potholes!)

People are up in arms about the parking meters; once they were privatized last month, the rates spiked to an all time high. Downtown, you get 7 minutes for every quarter you put in the meter. And now, there are roving bands of privatized revenue tyrants going around and ticketing like crazy - even in the snow.

The Tribune's John Kass recently wrote an excellent column about it, saying:

Downtown parking costs a fortune because Mayor Richard Daley rammed through a parking deal without much debate. The private company that bought the rights to the meters paid almost $1.2 billion for the contract that runs through the year 2084.

Some of the upfront cash went to fill budget holes, but much will be kept in reserve, so look for that gold to be leveraged into some Olympic arrangement. Chicago's parking meters carry the hidden Daley Olympic tax.

In a few years, it'll cost you $6.50 an hour to park on a downtown street. That's 52 quarters for two hours. You'll need more than a Fendi bag. You'll need a pack mule on steroids.



And yet still people vote for this mayor.


(You can hear a lively discussion about privatization from today's Eight Forty-Eight radio show here).



* * *



Annoying shock jock Mancow Muller is one of the few who wants to do something about it.

He says he's running for mayor, saying that the city has become "anti-human, costly, dangerous and corrupt.''

(Actually, it's always been that way).

I might even vote for him - if he were the only other choice.

After all, Mayor Muller sounds almost as funny as Dick Daley.



* * *


And now Chicago is trying to get the 2016 Olympics, which means more money for hooked-up cronies and bleeding the citizenry dry.

The Reader's Ben Joravsky explains it all here, saying:

Here’s the fundamental problem: We can’t afford the games. We’re broke—and I mean damn near destitute. The public school system is about $475 million in the red and the city’s facing its own deficit of at least $200 million. Just a few months ago Mayor Daley said he’d balanced the budget by raising fees and fines and slashing the city payroll, but already expenses have risen and revenues have dropped faster than anticipated. His aides have warned that more cuts could be on the way.

The Chicago Transit Authority, which runs our public transportation system, is busted too, in more ways than one. CTA officials are in the thick of their annual budget crisis, warning of fare hikes and service cuts that could affect traffic in every part of town. They don’t have enough money to replace the old buses or repair the tracks that are falling apart.





The International Olympic Committee folks were here over the weekend, being shown the wonderful sites on the city's south side - where long-time (read; African American) residents are certain city fathers are going to use it to make a land grab.

They are so certain of it in fact that only about 20 people came out for a pro-Olympics rally there on Sunday.

The IOC folks did get to see a lot of people at the Fraternal Order of Police protest against the Olympics, though. (They've been working without a contract for the past two years).


* * *


Remember when George W Bush was running for a second term, and everyone said, "If he wins, I'm leaving the country!"

Most didn't leave.

Remember the last presidential election, when people said, "If McCain wins, I'm leaving the country!"

They didn't have to make good on it.

But I say, "If Chicago gets the 2016 Olympics, I'm leaving the city."

I may actually mean it.

Once I vote for Mancow, anyway.













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


*I made up the item about the dog parks. It hasn't happened. Yet.

CRUEL APRIL




This morning I got up and started the laundry and moved the car and did my toilette and drank hot lemon water and then went into the yoga room....

....where I found a freshly-produced cat-turd sitting on the yoga mat.

All together now: EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!


* * *


As if that weren't enough - and it was - it's snowing outside, and the temperature in the dining room / workspace is 60 degrees.

Rather than turning up the boiler, the landlord proposes putting in a massive, wattage-sucking window unit that heats in the winter and cools in the summer.

My protests that this will shift the cost of heating the apartment from him to me fall on deaf ears.

And I contemplate moving the hell out of here - soon.




* * *


On Friday - my mother's death-day - Dreyfus and I learned that our step-brother died last month, shot by police in a cemetery standoff.

We cannot even begin to process this information.

On Saturday I searched for pictures of this blonde blue-eyed boy, and came across photos of our other relatives - all of whom are dead, dead, dead.

And I said some prayers for his sad soul.



* * *



Despite it all, I had a good practice today.... on my pooey yoga mat.

Like a steaming cup of chai, yoga is always there, no matter what, ready to uplift.

And for that I'm grateful.

That, and Lysol.

Very grateful indeed.

IS JOURNALISM DEAD?*



That's the title of my April media column - which I wrote a full four weeks before the Chicago Sun-Times joined the Chicago Tribune in filing for bankruptcy protection.

My article is about my own career and February's Journalism Town Hall, in which a who's-who of both working an out-of-work journalists (mostly the latter) discussed the fate of newspapers.

An excerpt:

I earned a master’s degree in public affairs reporting at Columbia College, where we spent an afternoon at the now-defunct City News Bureau, the cooperative news agency that provided news to member media outlets. That day, Managing Editor Paul Zimbrakos told us there were more students in journalism school than working journalists, and to get out now. I didn’t listen....

...I lost the Reader gig in 2004, amid a redesign sparked by the local launch of Time Out magazine. Now, I write part time and teach yoga full time.

I was in good company at the Town Hall, where the audience was full of current and former journalists - as was the panel, which ranged from Chi-Town Daily News founder Geoff Dougherty to former Sun-Times reporter Lee Bey.

The subject was the future of journalism, which has been shedding reporters like bad mortgages. John Callaway said newspapers as we knew them are dead, and it was suggested publications such as the Huffington Post that use and comment on content from traditional print media should pay for its use. Panelist Carol Marin called it "content without compensation."

Huffington Post Chicago's editor, Ben Goldberger, said his stories drive "tons" of readers to the papers' Web sites and pointed to the staggering number of comments the stories generate. "It's not just news," he said. "It's a dialog."

Callaway suggested a foundation be created that pays journalists to report the news, at least until a new model is found. "It is about creating an environment where journalism could flourish," said panelist Feder. This model would require editors and infrastructure as well as beat and investigative reporters - which would be expensive.

Andrew Huff pointed out Gapers Block, which uses volunteer writers, costs him just $100 per month for the server. Dougherty also runs his nonprofit Web site on a shoestring.

Audience member and former broadcast journalist Carolyn Grisko suggested readers make micro-payments to read articles, or that newspapers adopt the cable-TV subscription model.

But the best moment came when the Tribune's Eric Zorn noted that someone in the room had been unfavorably live-Tweeting the proceedings, and asked him to speak up. It was Angryjournalist.com founder Kiyoshi Martinez, who said newspapers must reinvent how they advertise. Instead of burying tiny ads on a busy Web page, they should copy Gawker.com, whose ads are large, singular and hard to miss -- not to mention profitable.




Locals can watch the Town Hall in its entirety today (April 3) at noon on CAN TV21.



*Ironically, the associate editor of the mag where this article appeared was fired the day after it came out. And on Monday I learned that Conscious Choice magazine (where I was once a yoga columnist) will cease publishing - although a group of staffers is planning a May 1 launch of something called Modern Metropolis magazine.... The Reader's parent company, Creative Loafing, is still in Chapter 11. Like Conscious Choice, this formerly-local mom-and-pop publication was snapped up in the mid-00's by an out-of-town interest that hastened its march towards the grave.

PAST LIVES



I was driving down the winding road to the massive Wisconsin resort complex where the Yoga Journal conference is being held this year when I had a jaw-dropping realization: The Grand Geneva used to be The Playboy Club, which had a kick-ass ski hill back in the 1970s.

Suddenly a flood of memories invaded the mind.

Our high school ski club would hit the slopes at The Playboy Club at least once a month.

The yellow school buses would take us up there after school, pounding the AC/DC and Bob Seger the whole way up. Once we got our lift tickets, we'd spend the night skiing and drinking Jack Daniels out of hip flasks and smoking pot on the lifts. In those days, I also liked to light a minty Salem Light and take a huge drag right before getting off the lift. The cooling menthol created the most wonderful head-rush you could imagine.

Sometimes we'd get tired of skiing and sit in the very fancy night club, which was all black and red and chrome. For some reason they never carded us (in those days the Wisconsin drinking age was 18, while in Illinois it was 21). We'd settle in and get good and drunk. The novelty was that we were waited on by actual Playboy bunnies wearing rabbit ears and hot pants and fuzzy tails. They were always polite, and did their signature sexy bunny dip when they set down our whiskey stone sours.

In hindsight, it must have been quite a scene; a table full of giggly 15-year-old girls being served sugary drinks by honest-to-God Playboy bunnies.

We didn't care, though; we were being served drinks! While on an official high school excursion! It didn't get much better than that.



* * *



We were devouring a pitcher of sloe gin fizzes on one of these trips when we noticed that a table of women across the bar looked rather familiar.

We realized it was our ski club bus drivers.

We averted our faces, and sucked down our drinks even faster - certain we were busted.

But they never told on us.

We never could figure it out.

In fact, it wasn't until last year that I learned why.

Someone actually had to point it out to me: Of course they weren't going to bust us. They were bus drivers. Who were in charge of driving us home. After sucking down drinks at the bar. They had far more to lose than we did.


* * *


After Dharma's intensive today - where I experienced the most wonderful Yoga Nidra (yogic sleep) you could imagine - I drove to downtown Lake Geneva for dinner.

I ended up having a big salad at Popeye's while watching the sun set over the lake. It was beautiful.

Afterwords, I was getting into my car when a vaguely familiar sign caught my eye.

It was for Hogs & Kisses, a bar we used to frequent in the early 1980s.

Slowly a memory began to form. Kathy S and I pissing off two fat drunk girls from Chicago. Regret at bringing a squirt gun to a bar. Yelling and screaming. Kathy talking back and defending silent, sullen me. A large round table being flipped over a la Duran Duran. More yelling and fist-shaking (them). Cowering / being smart asses (us). Trying to leave but getting beaten about the face on the way out. Flashing back to the stepmotha landing blows on the same face, while turning tail. Running down the street, fast. Being chased. Suddenly not so drunk any more, as the cool night air hit our now-stinging faces. Finally taking refuge at the White Hen, where Kathy said so dramatically (and, inexplicably, in a Southern accent), "Call the po-lice! We're being chased!."

Instead, some guys we didn't know sneaked us out the rear, put us on the back of their motorcycles and whisked us to our car.

Which we then drove home, drunk.



* * *



And now I'm here at Dharma's workshop. How I got here from there is beyond me.

But I'm very grateful indeed.

"YOGA IS SELF-KNOWLEDGE"




Here's an old interview with ashtanga vinyasa guru Pattabhi Jois.

It's such a treat to see/hear him speak.

It makes the heart fill with love and gratitude.

Om nama Shivaya!





* * *


1. It seems that in those days yoga was 95 percent practice, 5 percent theory. Nowadays the ratio is 99 to 1... which reminds me of why I loved the old name of Guruji's shala in Mysore: The Ashtanga Yoga Research Institute. It implied that the practice (and its teaching) was not fixed, but ever-evolving.


2. You can see many more wonderful SKPJ videos here, at the Ashtanga Yoga Sangha website. For those who are serious about the practice and its parampara (lineage), these videos are must-watch material. Actually, the whole website is a wonderful resource.

HOW TO STAY WELL IN WINTER




It is nearly impossible not to get sick in winter - especially as a yoga teacher, whose students often come to class when they're not feeling well (NOTE TO STUDENTS: We can tell when you're not well; you're the one in class who is sniffling and can't breathe through the nose and has a wad of Kleenex piled up next to your mat - which we step on, and then pull off our foot just before we place our hands on people's bodies to adjust them, and then use the same hand to push back our hair and accidentally brush our mouth.... you get the idea: PLEASE DO NOT COME TO CLASS WHEN YOU THINK YOU ARE GETTING SICK. If you can't breathe, you can't practice. And getting everyone else in class sick is not practicing ahimsa, or non-harming).


Anyway... for the first time in eons, I did not get sick during winter - even with the stress of all of those blizzards and subzero temperatures and car problems and moving in late January into the most freezing-cold apartment in the Windy City.




Here's what I did differently this year:

-Quit all caffeine, including chai

-Got a flu shot (after much research and internal debate)

-Stayed off the bike (usually I bike year-round)

-Disinfected my water bottle on a weekly basis

-Drank coconut water whenever I felt run down

-Took two Zicam whenever I felt run down

-Took a nap or canceled plans whenever I felt run down

-Did my practice (but napped instead whenever I felt run down)



I think that January's purification retreat in North Carolina, where we were in a completely nurturing, sattvic (peaceful, pure) environment and only ate juicy fruit for several days, was also a huge part of staying healthy. I cannot say enough good things about it.




Sadly, all of this good work did not stop me from suddenly coming down with a fever on the first day of spring.

What did I do differently during the preceeding week?

-Rode my bike to class

-Drank chai

-Thought about how I'd gone all winter without getting sick, and smiled.

-Ate a veggie burrito + chips + guacamole + 2 squares of chocolate the night before.



The lesson?

-Stay off the bike

-Stay off the chai

-Watch the ego

-And never, ever eat all of those rajasic foods at the same sitting.

KATZEN


I've been visiting and feeding a cat called Big Baby when his owner goes out of town each week.

I usually visit at night, and can hear him mewing when I come up the stairs.

When I open the door, he rubs against my legs and then rolls over so I can pet him on the belly.

After filling the food and whatnot, we play for awhile, and then I brush him. He's crazy about the brush; just can't stop rubbing his face on it.

Just before leaving, I give him a few cat-snacks.

I try to run out when he's still eating him.



* * *

Then I head over to my place. On Tuesday afternoon, when it was warm, I heard mewing sounds as I approached my building. They were coming from the tiny Juliette balcony on the first floor. I looked up and saw a big orange and white cat, who was standing on the postage stamp-size balcony and could not get back inside the apartment. It was hard to tell how long he'd been standing there, mewing. He looked quite distressed.

It was worrisome, because the occupant of that apartment had not been picking up her newspaper, which the other tenants bring upstairs and leave outside her door.

And his mews were so plainitive, it broke the heart.

So when I got home, Little Miss Busybody called the landlord and told him what was up. The landlord, a cat fan who used to feed the stray Big Baby before our friend took him in, was also concerned, and said he'd call the tenant. He thought she was out of town, visiting family. He didn't think she'd replaced her old cat when it died, but you never know.....


The next morning, the pile of newspapers was still there - but the cat was gone.

That night, the cat was back on the balcony, mewing. It made motions like it wanted to jump down. Then it curled into a ball and lay down.

All night I worried about that cat.

The next morning it was gone.


* * *


When I get home, I usually call for Kirby - who may or may not come, depending on his mood.

I don't pet him that much, because it always ends with him biting me.

I don't brush him that much, because it always ends with him biting me.

I don't give him that many treats, except as a reward (for allowing me to clip his nails or brush him).

But we do like to sit quietly together, or hang out in the same room.

And he really loves it when I sit still, or do savasana.

(He hates sun salutations - which are another excuse to bite me).

He also likes a chase game that WrongWay invented, called Sheep and Shepherd.

And he loooves the new apartment - he runs back and forth down the 14-foot hallway to the yoga room, where he slides on the floor and plays. He has hiding places here that I don't even know about.


* * *


I've been meaning to get a new scratching post for Kirby ever since the brother exclaimed, "You moved that f*cking piece of sh*t to the new place?" WrongWay and his former consort bought the scratching post for Kirby when they took care of him during my first trip to India, and it is indeed trashed. So I started shopping for a new one.

The one at PetSmart seemed OK. It's taller, and doesn't have carpeting on it. More like jute or something.

But I remembered a really special one that had belonged to Fritzka. We'd gotten it at a local no-kill shelter that takes sick, injured and abused strays (which is where we'd gotten her and her littermate, Snarfee). It had cost a lot, but it was made by someone they knew and was virtually indestructible (although I'd managed to destroy it during one of those fits of rage I used to have before I discovered yoga. [I was also known for putting the fist through walls and windshields, among other things. Yoga cured all that. Really]).

So I went to the shelter. Sure enough, they had a super-fabulous one, called The Ultimate Scratching Post. It was much bigger than the one we'd gotten in the 80s - and cost twice as much. I couldn't really afford it (Who am I kidding? I can't afford health insurance! Or to take the cat to the vet! Or to live in Lakeview!). But I figured it was worth it. Kirby deserved it.

When I was assembling it, I saw that it was made in China. So much for supporting a real, live person, I thought. But at least the inflated price will help support the poor sick, injured and abused kitties.

Kirby had other ideas.

When I put it in the place of his old scratching post, he looked frightened, and gave it a wide berth.

I put his favorite toy, a beat-up old stuffed weasel, on it.

He still wouldn't come near.

I made scratching motions, and encouraged him to join me.

Nada.

I left it there a day, and for a day he walked around it and would not even sniff it.

So I took it back today, and put the old one back in its place.

He happily scratched on it right away.

As I explained to Bo, we are not posh people.

NO SLEEP TIL MYSORE '08: FINAL INSTALLMENT




Part II of my most recent trip to Mysore is on the Yoga Chicago website.

Here's an excerpt:

Tonight I had a scooter accident when a man on a motorcycle sideswiped me and three other vehicles. The force was so great it knocked off my ankle bracelets. Bystanders pulled the scooter off of me, and asked if I was OK. The ankle was bloody, the elbow was throbbing and blood was seeping through the knee of my baggy salwaar pants.

One by one everyone else got up and left, and I drove to the hospital where I had been treated for a major gastrointestinal problem and had my nose pierced on my first trip. After a long wait, I was on the same examining table I'd been on back in 2002.

The nurse and her assistants crowded around me, wanting to know what happened. They were all quite concerned. One of them wanted to know if I had any foreign coins (it never fails).

As they cleaned the wounds, I became concerned about the cotton balls, which were shriveled and gray. "Are those new?" I asked. Yes, yes.

After the wounds were covered, an older woman raised a needle and said, “Injection.”

"Where?" I asked. "Backside?" I was joking.

But sure enough, they wanted me to turn over onto my stomach. I was so out-of-it I didn't even notice (or ask) if the needle was new.

Outside, my friend Ammu’s employee, Dungar, accompanied me to the pharmacy and said that Ammu's mother wanted to see me.

Ammu's mother made me lie down on the couch, where I iced my leg. One by one, people came in and asked me what happened. Between my limited Kannada and their limited English (and many gestures), we pieced together the story.

Then Ammu's mother brought out some food and insisted that I eat.

And the heart melted, as I thought about my own long-gone mother and how she used to tend to me after my many bicycle crashes.

And I thought about the idea of "I, me and mine" that we're trying to get away from in yoga, and how at that moment Ammu's mother was not just his mother but also my mother and everyone's mother, and I was beyond grateful. To be taken care of that sweetly, without reservation, so far from home, is the greatest gift.

Read the rest of the story here - and see if you can discern what really went down on this most recent trip....

THE NEW NEIGHBORHOOD II



Not only does the produce store on the corner have tender Thai coconuts for $2, but they'll also cut them in half for you when you've finished the juice - and provide the spoon to scoop out the "meat."

The coconuts are part of a full juice bar that boasts everything from carrot and wheatgrass and grapefruit and pomegranate juice to fresh sugar cane juice and various smoothies. In the warm months there's a walk-up window, so you don't even have to go inside.

There are always crazy deals, like last week's three slabs of jaggery for a dollar.

And in the back there's a discount produce rack, where you can find even crazier deals - like the one in the photo: six oranges for 79 cents.

It sure beats Jewel....

DHARMA MITTRA WORKSHOPS - TOMORROW AND NEXT SATURDAY
PLUS DHARMA HIMSELF THE FOLLOWING WEEKEND

I'll lead a Dharma Mittra workshop this Saturday, March 14 from 2:30-5:30 at lovely Yoga Trek Center in Oak Park.

I'll do another one next Saturday, March 21 from 2-5PM at the equally lovely
Beverly Yoga Center, on Chicago's south side.

These will be my last DM workshops for some time - although Dharma himself will teach at the Yoga Journal conference in Lake Geneva the following weekend, March 26-29.




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


This impromptu photo (notice the sandals!) was snapped by professional photographer Robert Yager during Dharma's Mexico retreat in December. It also appears on the cover of the current Yoga Chicago magazine, in conjunction with my article about Dharma's Life of a Yogi teacher trainings. The article will appear online soon, at www.yogachicago.com.

MARCH MADNESS


We are eleven days into the longest, hardest month of the year, and people are already losing it.


(If you don't believe me, you can hear my classic public radio essay about how much March sucks here).

So far there have been three shooting rampages - in Illinois, Alabama, and Germany.

Most of the people I know are miserable. The minds are dull and depressed. There are aches and pains. Everything is difficult.

But in India, people of all backgrounds celebrate the coming of spring with the festival of Holi, or colors - where people make merry and throw colored powder on each other.*

It seems to work as a way to let off steam right before the infernal vernal equinox.

Perhaps we chould figure out some similar form of institutionalized deviance here in the west -- preferably something that does not involve drinking, basketball, guns or dying the river green.

Any ideas?




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*Sadly some bad men use use Holi as an excuse to Eve-tease, or fondle unsuspecting women. That would have to be outlawed, although it shouldn't be that much of a problem here in the west - where the women are just as likely to Adam-tease right back.

CK'S NEW APARTMENT INDEX




Rooms: 6

Bedrooms: 2

Radiators: 5

Windows: 13

Ceiling fans: 3

Cabinets in kitchen: 1

Amish space heaters: 1

Electrical outlets in dining room: 1

In bathroom: 0

Circuit-breakers: 3

Units in building: 12

Eunuchs in building: 0

Average daily temperature: 64

Coldest temperature so far: 58*

Warmest: 70

City-mandated minimum: 68 (66 at night)

Number of units between CK's apartment and boiler: 11

Number of complaints about the cold: countless

Number of items the landlord has repaired so far: 3

Number of yoga mats that will fit in living room: 10

Number of vegetarian restaurants in three-block radius: countless








*To his credit, the landlord has been working tirelessly to fix the heating problem; it turns out there are other apartments in the building where the temperature is a good ten degrees warmer.

WET





It rained all weekend.





There was flooding.




People were not happy.....

Except of course for the ones who did yoga.

CK'S MOVING INDEX

Number of people who helped (paid) on day of move: 4

Number of people who helped (unpaid) on day of move: 3

Number of people who helped (unpaid) before, during and after move: countless

Cost: $390 plus tips, boxes, tape, food, etc.

Distance: 33 blocks

Stairs: 3rd floor to 3rd floor

Size of truck: 15'

Number of boxes: 92

Number of times someone fell down stairs: 3? 4? 5?

Bones broken: 0

Items broken: 3

Lawsuits threatened: 0

Rooms and closets unpacked by Mrs. Dreyfus: 6

Hours spent waiting for cable guy who never came: 4

Number of years in old apartment: 15

At the address before that: 7

Number of years with old phone number: 22

Number of days old number worked at new address: 10

Number of calls to RCN to beg for it back: 5

Number of curt refusals: 5

THE THREE THINGS


By Swami Sivananda, from the Divine Life Society website....

"Eat three things; wear three things; practise three things: Ahimsa [non-harming], Satyam [truth] and Brahmacharya [celibacy]. Remember three things: death, afflictions of the world and God. Renounce three things: egoism, desire and attachment. Cultivate three things: humility, fearlessness and love. Eradicate three things: lust, anger and greed.

"Friends! Here are some triads for your daily spiritual practices. Three things to love: desire for liberation, company of the wise and selfless service; three things to despise: miserliness, cruelty and petty-mindedness; three things to admire: generosity, courage and nobility; three things to respect: Guru, renunciation and discrimination. Three things to control: tongue, temper and tossing of mind."

WAS PAUL HARVEY A YOGI?



I think he was....

The Chicago-based broadcast innovator and icon died over the weekend at age 90.

He read an abridged version Bo Lozoff's "An Impatient Letter To All Of Us From God," above, on his syndicated radio show in 1998. (NOTE: It's best to ignore the video, and just listen).

I used to tune in to him on the Armed Forces Radio Network in Spain, in 1985. He gave me a connection to home.

He will be missed.*

Good. Day.




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



*Harvey's death comes hot on the heels of three other Chicago broadcast deaths: former Chicago Bulls head coach and analyst Johnny “Red” Kerr, former Chicago Bull Norm Van Lier (a true gentleman, whom I waited on at Wishbone), and former Sun-Times and ABC-7 food critic James Ward.

HAPPY CASIMIR PULASKI DAY*



Today marks the birthday of Revolutionary War hero, who was born JMP Kazimierz Michał Wacław Wiktor Pułaski herbu Ślepowron on March 4, 1745 in Poland. A General in the Continental Army during the American Revolutionary War, he trained US soldiers and oversaw the cavalry. He was under the command of George Washington and, according to some, was rather arrogant.


In Chicago - which used to have the largest Polish population outside of Warsaw - it means there is no school today.

The libraries are closed.

Cook County employees have the day off.

And morning yoga has been canceled.

Sadly there is no special pastry to commemorate this event.






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




*This holiday is not to be confused with the federal holiday, General Pulaski Memorial Day, which commemorates Pulaski's death at the Siege of Savannah on October 11, 1779.




* * *

The video features the song by Sufjan Stephens, from his album Illinois, about a girlfriend of his who died on Casimir Pulaski Day. Big Black beat him to the punch with 1988's "Kasimir S. Pulaski Day" - which also has a driving theme. Lyrics here.

...LIKE A HOLE IN THE HEAD


Friday after work I walked (!) to the bank to make a deposit, had a tender coconut on the corner, and shopped for a picture of Shiva (no luck).

Then I went to the salon to get my eyebrows threaded.

When the woman finished, she pointed to my upper lip and said, "You do."

And I was like, NOOOOOOOOO.

"You need it," she replied.

It was a priceless moment - just like being in Mysore.

Except that it was snowing outside.

IF YOU LIKED SLUMDOG, YOU'LL LOVE DELHI-6




Bindi and I braved Thursday's severe thunderstorms and flooding to see Delhi-6, the latest film by Rang da Basanti director Rakeysh Omprakash Mehra.

Like Slumdog Millionaire, this fast-paced snapshot of Delhi has been taken to task for shining a mirror onto India's darker aspects - in this case caste and religious intolerance, dowry, misogyny and police brutality. It's got everything, including the Ramayana pageant, windbag politicians fanning the flames of intolerance, a cow giving birth in the street and a Hindu-Muslim riot.

It stars Abishek Bachchan as a US-born NRI (non-resident Indian) who accompanies his grandmother back to Old Delhi's Chandni Chowk neighborhood, where she wants to spend her dying days. Once there he meets quarreling relatives who are not pleased with his mixed Hindu-Muslim heritage, learns about "real" India and falls in love with the beautiful Sonam Kapoor (which of course he announces in English, rather than Hindi).

Abishek's character throws a monkey wrench into the community's age-old customs - whether her's handing a box of sweets to a Brahmin who's just stepped out of the loo, trying to help the sweeper woman carry her garbage, or telling a father he can't marry off his daughter without her consent. There's also a kaala bandar (black monkey) thrown into the mix, to represent fear and intolerance. The film moves fast, clocking in at 2:20, and doesn't pause to explain its references - which was rather refreshing but may be confusing to those who don't know much about India.

It costars the still-handsome Rishi Kapoor as Uncle Ali, and boasts a cameo by Big B, Amitabh Bachchan. Plus it begins and ends with a message that is basically the essence of yoga: All gods represent the same God, and inside each and every one of us there resides a small spark of the divine.

The soundtrack is by none other than two-time Oscar winner A.R. Rahman, and can be heard here.

The wonderful but blurry video pasted below was worth the price of admission, and shows what would happen if Times Square were to relocate to Chandi Chowk - or vice-versa. If it did, I'd move there in a New York minute.



Delhi-6 runs through March 5 at Piper's Alley.


Thanks to Bindi for the head's-up on this one! Read her excellent review here.

INDIA EVERYWHERE
India has been in news quite a bit over the past couple of weeks.....

Jai Ho - Slumdog Millionaire (English Subs)
Uploaded by aka71691

Last week, two-time Oscar winner A.R. Rahman was interviewed on Public Radio International's "The World" - where he said he wanted to get away from musical cliches when he scored "Slumdog Millionaire."

"In a film, when you see an Indian face, you normally think you're going to hear sitar and doleks and stuff like that, so, for us, the first thing that you hear in the film needed to have the quality of 'put on your seat belt' kind of a thing," he said.

Hear the rest of the interview here.





* * *






The New York Times also ran a piece about Mr. Rahman last week (thanks to Catesy for the tip). Here's an excerpt:

His work has been in more than 100 films since 1992, and after scoring Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Bollywood-themed stage musical “Bombay Dreams” in 2002 he enjoyed had a steadily growing profile in the West. One of the first major composers in India to embrace digital technology, he is in his natural habitat at the computer, and he maintains the manic, multitasking rhythm of a true 21st-century techie.

“I like to see a film and then start scoring it in my mind, while doing something unrelated,” he said. “You just grasp a film and start working, and something unpredictable comes out from a third element. The mind, the more active it is, the more productive it is.”

Productivity, along with a gift for golden melody and a cosmopolitan touch that reflects the new, globally conscious India, have given Mr. Rahman, who lives and works in Chennai (the city formerly known as Madras), a kind of national-hero status. “Rah Rah Rahman,” The Times of India proclaimed on its front page after the Oscar nominations were announced.

“He has a rapper from Tanzania working with him,” Mr. Boyle said, “and fulfilled a mutual desire to work with M.I.A., part Sri Lankan, part London, part New York. Add the house-music disco beats sweeping Bollywood dance lately and you have a real moment of fusion.”






* * *





Yesterday, the unstable situation in the Indian states of Jammu and Kasmhir was explained simply and concisely by journalist Steve Coll on Terry Gross's NPR radio show "Fresh Air." Coll, who has a related article in the March 2 New Yorker called "The Back Channel," made it easy to understand origins of the long-disputed territory between India and Pakistan (apparently the Muslim-majority princely state was ruled by a Hindu Maharaja at the time of Independence, and he decided to go with Hindu-majority India). Coll rightly took the British to task for the complete botching of their pullout from the Subcontinent - which resulted in the death of over a million people during Partition. Hear the interview here.












* * *










The New York Times recently carried a story about cartoonist Nina Paley's handmade animated feature film "Sita Sings the Blues," which weaves together the Hindu Sita-Ram epic with the story of the dissolution of her own marriage.

An excerpt:

In 2002 Ms. Paley followed her husband, an animator, from their home in San Francisco to a town in western India. It was there that she first learned of the tale of the Ramayana. When she reached the part when Sita kills herself to prove her fidelity, she said, she thought, “That’s just messed up and wrong.”

An idea for a postfeminist comic strip began brewing. In it her new ending would still have Rama rejecting Sita, but instead of committing suicide she would become empowered. “She says, ‘To hell with you. I’m going to go join a farming collective.’ ”

Before Ms. Paley could commit her I-will-survive strip to paper, though, life intervened. While she was on a business trip to New York, her husband sent her an e-mail message telling her not to return. In a state of “grief, agony and shock,” she remained in Manhattan, camping out on friends’ sofas.


The film will appear soon on PBS and be distributed at some point (for free) over the internet; read the article here.






* * *






A five-screen Bollywood cinema is slated to open soon in near north suburban Niles, according to announcements in the local Indian newspapers. No word yet on when the Adlabs Films USA-owned Niles Talkies will open. But just think - No more schlepping to Barrington! And five screens! Five!













* * *








As if that weren't enough, I noticed last week that Target is selling Hindu prayer shawls in the purse/accessory section. For just $11.99, you too can look like a Brahmin priest this spring.

TODAY IS PACZKI (PUNCH-KEY) DAY...

...which means that one could break the Shivaratri fast with decadent (400-calorie) Fat Tuesday Polish donuts from Dinkel's.

The cakelike, deep-fried glazed donut comes in flavors like plum, apple or chocolate, and constitutes the opposite of the prescribed live, vegan, low-sugar yogic diet.

Fortunately, you can get them only once a year.

More on Paczki here.

The recipe (which it is probably best not to read) is here.

MAHA SHIVARATRI




Today is Shivaratri, or the Great Night of Lord Shiva*.

It is Lord Shiva's favorite day, and each time you chant his mantra today it is like doing it 1,000 times.

It is also a day of fasting, and staying up all night chanting His name (which is why the shala in Mysore is always closed on this day).

From Lily at the Dharma Yoga Center:

Celebrated on the 14th night of the new moon in months of February and March, Maha Shivaratri or 'Shiva's Great Night' is known as the wedding day of Lord Shiva and his wife, Parvati.

On Maha Shivaratri day, devotees of Lord Shiva fast for the entire day and recite "Om Namah Shivaya" japa throughout the day. The entire day is spent in intense worship to the Lord. Maha Shivaratri is a blessed opportunity for the aspirant of Yoga, as he who remains vigilant and sincere in his worship on Maha Shivaratri will conquer Rajas [passionate activity]. Furthermore, those who observe vigil throughout the night of Shivaratri are said to conquer Tamas [inertia] entirely!

Let "Om Namah Shivaya" be your mental and verbal mantra all day and night, surrendering yourself completely the Lord Shiva, the representation of that almighty light dwelling deep within you. **






Here in Chicago there is an all-night event at the Sivananda Vendanta Center, starting at 9:30PM. The fast is broken the following morning.




Om Nama Shivaya!






*Lord Shiva represents the Supreme Self dwelling at the right side of the heart and encompassing all of the other gods. He symbolizes renunciation, and is a favorite of yogis.



**From Swami Sivananda: "The two great natural forces that afflict man are Rajas (the quality of passionate activity) and Tamas (that of inertia). The Shivaratri Vrata aims at the perfect control of these two. The entire day is spent at the Feet of the Lord. Continuous worship of the Lord necessitates the devotee's constant presence in the place of worship. Motion is controlled. Evils like lust, anger, and jealousy, born of Rajas are ignored and subdued. The devotee observes vigil throughout the night and thus conquers Tamas also. Constant vigilance is imposed on the mind. Every three hours a round of worship of the Shiva Lingam is conducted. Shivaratri is a perfect Vrata [religious observance]."

BEST OSCAR MOMENT EVER





The best Oscar moment ever happened during tonight's Academy Awards show, when the Japanese winner of the best animated short film, Kunio Kato, gave a halting speech slowly thanking his company, staff, producers, etc. It took awhile, and his accent was thick (the title of his winning film is La Maison en Petits Cubes).

Finally, he paused and said, rather pointedly, "Dōmo arigatō, Mr. Roboto."

I nearly fell off my chair.

Sadly, most of the people in the audience didn't understand his sharp wit.*

Plus it's not every day you get a Styx reference during the prime-est of prime time shows.

Thank you very much, Mr. K-Kato!

Domo.


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*Turns out that Mr. Kato's website is kiteretsu.robot.co.jp/kunio - so maybe the joke's on me.

A MYSORE MOMENT - IN MADISON, WISCONSIN






A gentleman with a ponytail got on the hotel elevator at the same time I did early Saturday morning.

"Which floor?" he asked.

"First," I replied.

"Lobby?" he asked.

Something about the way he said the word piqued my interest.

"Are you from India?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Where are you from?"

"Bangalore."

The mind searched for the correct word for breakfast.

"Tindi aita?" I asked.

He looked surprised, but answered without missing a beat,

"Tindi aytoo."

He laughed. "How do you know Kannada?"

"I spent some time in Mysore," I said. "An important yoga teacher is there."

Now he really looked surprised.

"I'm from Mysore!" he said as the elevator reached the lobby.

"Mysore is toomba chennai gidday!" I said.

And with that we wished each other a good day and parted, smiles on our faces.

DHARMA MITTRA YOGA IN CHICAGO




Click on the image to enlarge it.



NOTE: Many workshops are there: 2/21 in Madison, WI; 3/14 in Oak Park; and 3/21 in Chicago. Click here for details.

Also...The Silverspace class is Fridays from 10-11 in Wicker Park and costs only $10. It is geared to all levels and starts March 6 (no class March 28 - when Dharma will be doing a day-long session at the Yoga Journal Conference in Wisconsin). Use code GG24 to get a $50 discount on the conference.

For more info on Silverspace and other local classes, go here.

POSSESSED




While paging through Sunday's The New York Times Magazine, I came across a pictorial spread about Yves St. Laurent's collection of important furniture and decorative and fine art. It will be sold soon at a charity auction, and some designers were asked to comment on the collection - which is expected to fetch nearly $400 million.

Seeing the images - he had so many paintings they were even mounted on doors - made me feel claustrophobic, and I vowed to continue my quest to get rid of stuff.


* * *


Yesterday I called Dreyfus, to tell him that President Obama said "Namaste" at least twice while signing the stimulus plan (Dreyfus said this word so many times, with such vigor and enthusiasm, during the move that he finally got a rather sharp reaction out of me).

Dreyfus told me that Mahatma Gandhi's personal belongings will soon be sold at auction in New York City.




"What possessions?" I asked. "He only had, like, three things."

That's right, said Dreyfus. Turns out they're auctioning off his spectacles, a pocket watch, sandals, a bowl and a plate. All of the items were given as gifts to other people* while he was still alive. The whole lot is expected to fetch £30,000 ($42,000) - and there are many in India who want to bring them back home.

Dreyfus, who is a hoarder like me, concluded the call by saying, "That's the way to go - to have nothing."

He's right.

It's not easy.

But as the Bhagavad-Gita says, What is poison in the beginning becomes nectar in the end.




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

*According to this website, Gandhi’s earthly possessions could be counted on two hands: His two dinner bowls, wooden fork and spoon, the famous porcelain monkeys, his diary, prayer book, watch, spittoon, letter openers and two pair of sandals.

THE NEW NEIGHBORHOOD



I was very naughty yesterday, when I walked over to Annapurna Vegetarian and read the Sunday paper and ate an Indian lunch among the Southeast Asian families who also know a good deal when they see one. Annapurna is kind of like Stand-Up Chats in Gokulam - cheap food, fast - only here you sit in bright blue plastic booths.

Twice last week, after a long day of teaching, I walked over to the supermarket and treated myself to a tender coconut. Wonderful!

Did I mention dirt-cheap pomegranate seeds?

In the new neighborhood, people smile when your eyes meet.

(I said hello last month to someone who'd just moved into my old building. She looked away without replying).

I could be wrong, but in the new neighborhood it seems that the feeling is less I'm gonna get my piece of the action and to the hell with everyone else and more We're all in this together so we might as well make the best of it.

The new neighborhood is adjacent to a suburb that has cheap gas and stores with free parking and lower sales tax. The Foods Whole up here actually has free samples.

And last week, the cat and I were surprised to find a squirrel on the dining room window ledge, staring at us through the glass. When he was done, he leapt back onto the tree and scooted down.

You just don't see things like that on Ashland Ave.

MONEY SHOTS
Finally.....photos of the new digs.


This is the bedroom.











The guest room.












The altar in the yoga room.









And the yoga room itself. Classes now forming. Midday Mysore in Little India, anyone? Evening Dharma Yoga in West Ridge?

YOGA, THE GOV AND THE NEO GOV




A curious coincidence:


On Wednesday nights I teach yoga just below the Chicago office of recently-ousted Illinois Governor Rod Blagojević.

On Wednesday mornings I teach yoga just below the Chicago office of recently-installed Illinois Governor Patrick Quinn.

If they'd just consider(ed) venturing downstairs, crossing the threshold and practicing yoga, perhaps the second line of the ashtanga closing prayer (ie; the Mangala Mantra, from the Rig Veda) could come true: Nya yena margena mahi mahishaha, or Let the administrators rule the world with law and justice....

....which could lead to Lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu: May all beings be happy and prosperous.

We can only hope.

Om shanti!




* * *

NOTE: The students in this priceless 2002 video of Sri K. Pattabhi Jois seem to be tittering because they didn't realize there's a final Surya Namaskar after the closing prayer. Watching this video made me realize just how much I miss that dear man's teaching. The heart literally aches, and it becomes crystal clear why I was so miserable in Mysore last year. I also realize how lucky I am to study with Dharma and Chandra - whose teachings pick up where his left off. Thinking about this, the ache gives way to overwhelming gratitude.

MY OWN PRIVATE ICICLE




I am here. Now.

As in, the new apartment.

It was hell to get here. But as my teacher says when describing sattva (purity, peace, knowledge), what is poison in the beginning becomes nectar in the end.

As for the poison....

While throwing out some trash the night before the move, I met another long-time tenant - and learned that she too was moving on Saturday. At the same time. And the landlord never told us. We were both glad to be getting away from that person.

The movers - Four Hung-Over Guys and a Truck - showed up an hour late on Saturday. Nonetheless they managed to move ninety-two boxes and assorted furniture to the new apartment in just under five hours - in spite of several falls down the slippery stairs at both places. At the end, the head Guy said it was the most organized move he'd ever worked (I didn't ask how many moves he'd actually done).

Dreyfus, Mrs. Dreyfus and PKB were also instrumental in making the move a success. Dreyfus and PKB moved two van-loads of stuff to the new place. The second trip featured a mattress and dining room table strapped legs-up to the roof of the family van - which must have been quite a sight.


Mrs. Dreyfus helped with everything, and singlehandedly cleaned the rather dirty new kitchen and unpacked three rooms and one closet and countless other things. She is a dynamo and an inspiration to all.

Mr. Dreyfus installed the smoke detectors and escape rope, and fell down the stairs while throwing out garbage.

All of us starved while waiting for the cable guy - who never came.

Finally we gave up and had a wonderful, hard-earned feast at Uru-Swati.



* * *


But I'm here now.

There are trees outside the apartment's many windows - seven of which face south.

There are tender coconuts down the street.

There are so many rooms I wander about, not knowing where to go.

There is a room just for yoga - a large living room with a giant fireplace altar and windows that face west.

There's a large, sunny room just for guests.

There's a long hallway that's a huge hit with the cat.

And it is QUIET. I had my best night of sleep since Scotland here.

But it also has been a bit cold.

On the first two days the temperature inside hovered around 64 degrees.

Things improved yesterday, when I realized that the downstairs neighbor had left his window open when he moved out, and got permission to close it. No wonder the floor was so cold!

Tonight, the landlord will come and try to help me close the bedroom window, which has been painted open.

In the meantime I purchased some warm slippers, and a beanie to wear while performing asana.

There is also a special hat (crocheted by me) and a hand-knit poncho (made by Munkin) for sitting practice.

It is a bit like being in the Himalayas, minus the cave.

Plus there is a massive icicle right outside the kitchen window.

PKB dubbed it my own private icicle.

As far as I can tell, it is not in the shape of a Shiva lingam or any other sacred symbol.

Yet.



Fortunately, winter is temporary....

....just like everything else on this plane.





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Photos show the giant icicle outside the kitchen window. I suppose it is a bit phallic, at least in this shot. What do *you* think it looks like?