The Pope's been buried. Good fucking riddance, I'm tired of reading about it everywhere, all the time. Who knew he had such a devoted following?
(I posted this a few minutes ago, thought about it, and came back to edit it out---but you know what? Fuck it. I'm going to let it stand and hope no one declares jihad on me. Or molests me and then covers it up.)
Today, BBC News' website has a photo of an Iraqi woman's face as the thumbnail image for a photo essay. Is it wrong to think she's totally hot? Inaam Tadra, student, 24---if you're reading this, drop me a line.
We had a massive moon-day breakfast at Andrew's house. The poor guy got shanghaied into whipping up pancakes for about 10 yoga homies (yomies?) from the studio. He also makes a great latte. (Of which I had two, thanks.) He only has himself to blame, for being such a damn fine cook.
I also have come to appreciate the Australian way of eating pancakes, which is to pour cream on top.
The only way to build and sustain a community is to do it. Which means breakfasts, coffees, lunches, dinners, and around these parts, child-watching.
I'm currently reading a copy of the Gheranda Samhita, which Julie was kind enough to float my way. It's actually a great version, but more forthcoming ...
My homeboy at work and I have spent the last hour browsing espresso machine websites, as we've concocted this fantastic plot to order an illmatic espresso machine for the office and expense it to the company. Charge it to the game!
In days of yore, when in Vegas for a trade-show, I'd always somehow end up at Crazy Horse 2. The homies would be running up cash advances on their work credit cards (getting those Crazy Horse dollars) and purchasing unholy amounts of lap dances. The recurring battle-cry: "Charge it to the game!"
Is there yoga in a lapdance? In the stripclub? It is a place filled with ritualized behavior that harnesses a deep, dark (dare I trot out "cthonic"?) energy. Tantric yoga, maybe.
Perhaps this line of inquiry bears further investigation.