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


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

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

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

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

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

But at least the schools are good.









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


Wednesday, February 25, 2004


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




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

9 FILLUMS A WEEK, 24 FRAME PER SECOND


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

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

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

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

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

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

SATYA'S CHI-TOWN YOGA INDEX


Number of yoga classes taught this week: 14

Number of students taught this week: 150

Number of pregnant students who left after ten minutes: 1

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

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

Number of students Teacher then avoided like The Plague: 1

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

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

Number who listened: 5

Number who then took savasana: 0

VENTRILOQUISM FOR DUMMIES*

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

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

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

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

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



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

MORE SNOT, LESS TALK



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


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

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

BREAKING (INTO) THE (RADIO) WAVES

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

I haven’t thought about X since.

TWO DAYS LATE


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



***




FELONY

Red lips
Red shoes
Red car
and Red nails

That bitch read my mail and threw it out.




***





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

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

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

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

I wonder what they drive, anyway.

No I don't.

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



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

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





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




"Bitchin' Camaro"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





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




FAST CARS

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




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



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





LET'S TANGO IN PARIS

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

Let's tango in Paris (x3)

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

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


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

NETI AND THE BUBBLIES*

(warning -- not for prudes)



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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s in his house somewhere.*******

Poor man.


Bad lady, more like it.




----




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

**Brit-speak for Q-Tip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FULL MOON MANANA

But it might as well be today.

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

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

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

I forgot a lunch date with Tam-Tam.

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

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

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

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

And the full moon is TOMORROW.

...or is it?

MUSICAL CHAIRS

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


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

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





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



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

PEOPLE


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


FACTIONS OF THE PEOPLE NATION


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




GANG  AFFILIATIONS  AND  IDENTIFIERS

FOLKS


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


FACTIONS OF THE FOLK NATION


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

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


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





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

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

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

So much for dibsh.

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

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

And it couldn't be cozier.


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

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

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

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

NRI = NONRESIDENT INDIAN


From my 2004 Diary:



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

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





FRI 16 JAN. LIGHTHOUSE BEACH, 7:30AM

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




WED 21 JAN 04

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




THURS 22 JAN 04. KOVALAM HOSPITAL WAITING ROOM

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

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

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

Many people here today.

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

Maybe I'm dehydrated.

Just felt faint.

Ut-oh.

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

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





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

Stop me before I shop again.







*dehydration salts

STAB IT WITH YOUR STEELY KNIFE....

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

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



LATER....

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

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



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



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


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





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

YOU ARE *NOT* GOD

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



*the Preserver

BAD LADY! WHY NOT WRITING?



-Ten classes (not that many, actually )

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

-Four cross-country skiing outings

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

-One ice skating party at Millenium Park

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








BONUS TIT BIT:


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

I arrived on the 12th.

COALITION OF THE WILLFULLY DISOBEDIENT


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

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


Satya: Try to grab your big toe

Student: No.

Satya: Why?

Student: Because I've always done it this way

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

The student doesn't budge.


LATER.....

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

Satya: Try putting your hand outside of the foot.

Student: No.

Satya: Why?

Student: I don't feel like it

Satya: But that's not the pose.

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


LATER....

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

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

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


LATER....

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

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

Satya: Is there something wrong with your big toe?

Student (holding the foot): No.

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

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





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

For a minute anyway.

OLDE SCHOOL
(via Dreyfus)


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DUH

TOO MUCH HOPPIN' JOHN...

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

The magic of yoga?

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