Back from the Rotten, tightened hip flexors, tweaked knee and all.

New Yorkers are a savage people. They don't use cars! Often they don't use escalators or even elevators!

Like our nomadic Stone Age forebears, they walk, run, and jog everywhere---on foot.

I remain horrified.

We steady mobbed to LA this weekend to say goodbye to Noah and Kimberley. Like waves on a sandy shore, friendships and acquaintances swell and recede.

It would seem the Los Angeles ashtanga community has been roundly hammered in the last month, as in addition to Noah's and Kim's departure, Chuck and Maty are also departing the city.

Would now be an appropriate time to reflect on how thankful I am that Tim Miller has seen fit to show up at the studio every morning and unlock the shala door for the past 20-something years?

Well, now he's unlocking the door to the Sandcastle Room, but you get my drift.

If you head to LA, don't fear---the lovely Maia has stepped in to run morning Mysore until mid-June for the students at Noah's and Kim's.

Otherwise they all would have had to switch to Bikram's. Hah!

There seems to be a post-Guruji-tour fever of India trips in the works.

Tons of people are packing up their Western lives, putting their affairs in (semi) order, and lighting out for Mysore this summer. And god help me, I'll be one of 'em.

As those of you who've been to New York City know, there's not a whole lot going on here. Not much to look at, not a lot of places to eat, nothing much to do.

Well, maybe there're like two places to eat. But that's it.

I'm not sure which god I've pleased lately, but some cosmic hand has seen fit to bestow spring-like weather, even summer-like, on New York City.

This isn't novel for those of us from SoCal, where there's incredible weather all day, every day, all year---for us, rain is the novelty---but let me tell you why I've fallen to my knees in thanks in the intersection of Prince and Sullivan Streets, to the amusement of oncoming drivers and the Korean guy stocking the fruit at the corner store.

White wife-beaters.

New York's unending supply of cripplingly attractive women have all seen fit to crack out their white wife-beaters. They're parading about the city, oblivious to the ensuing sprained necks and car crashes.

Yoga has happened in the dingy, grime-encrusted Russian and Turkish Baths, located on E. 10th Street.

An exhausted-looking Russian guy does you the favor of taking your money. You change in the grimiest locker in the known universe, and then descend downstairs to the "spa."

They have a Turkish steam room, a dry sauna, a Swedish sauna, an ice-dip pool, and the best room in the joint, the Russian sauna.

In the Russian sauna, the kiln in the corner is filled with rocks that are baked all night, and then left to radiate temps of 165 degrees all day. Faucets with buckets underneath are interspersed along the ampitheatre-style stone steps.

When the heat gets unbearable---about every five minutes or so---you dump the bucket of frigid water over your head and let it cascade down your body.

What follows is a milisecond of pure consciousness whiteout and bliss.

That's some yoga right there.

It was coed, which meant it wasn't a total dude-fest. I was a little apprehensive about the joint's gay quotient, and scoured the website for hints that this was any place other than an OG Russian Jewish "schvitz" bathhouse. I couldn't find any, and subsequently only got hit on once.

("Say---are you by any chance a model?" Damnit, that line works on me every time.)

I've been practicing at Eddie Stern's joint, sans Eddie, who's apparently very sick. I've heard about his dedication, so he must be incredibly ill to have missed a week of class.

The space is incredible, and there's a lot of shakti in the room. Everyone faces in the same direction, towards an altar at one end of the room, and there's a warm, inviting feel to place. Everyone's been very friendly, if not a bit harried---it is New York, after all.

I also keep running into people I've met in Mysore---maybe 10 people or so? That's a lot, man. It's been too sweet.

Of course, my experience at Eddie's is made sweeter by the fact that I will soon be returning to the Best Western's Sandcastle Room.

There are also new Mysore plans in the air. I'm at 90-percent certainty there will be an extended 05 trip. More soon.

A special treat: two entries in one day!

The Morrisey firestorm rages unabated.

Quite simply, the world is divided into two camps: those who love Morrisey, and those who must be pushed screaming from a helicopter.

My mom always says, "Remember when you broke up with Tiffany and then listened to The Smiths and Morrisey for the next six months?"

Don't laugh, I was 25.

In my defense, I was listening to the Mozzer before the break-up.

Well, maybe my Morrisey phase was symptomatic of some larger issues at hand.

On a lighter note, after practice today, my spine hurts. But baddha konasana felt great! I do feel a lot physically stronger after Guruji's two-week stopover.

With that, I'll let Morrisey take it away!

I was good kid
through hail and snow
I’d go
just to moon ya
--"I Have Forgiven Jesus"

Off the rails I was and
off the rails
I was happy to stay
--"Piccadilly Palare"

Angel, don't take your life
Some people have got no pride
They do not understand
The urgency of life
But I love you more than life
--"Angel, Angel, Down We Go Together"

Speaking of coconuts, how does one get the little bastards open?

Monkeys do it, and here I am with my opposable thumbs and giant, evolved forebrain, smashing the thing around the parking lot like an idiot, unable to get at the sweet, sweet meat inside.

I'm right fucked if I ever crash-land on a deserted island.

I've been using the DeWalt drill to bore two holes into the coconut, after which I insert a straw.

Even with the DeWalt, I still can't get it open as fast as Beg the Coconut Man of Mysore, who holds the coconut in one hand and swings a machete at it with the other---yet still has all his fingers!

My Electric Lady betrayed me the other day. Tim's been running Sunday classes in the Sandcastle Room much later in the day, so I've been practicing at 1 PM.

Like a true Western yoga student (read: "idiot"), I ate a banana and some almonds at about 8 AM, and immediately washed it down with my vaunted Electric Lady Hammerhead. And that was it.

Needless to say, by 1 PM I was a jittery, sugar over-loaded, dehydrated mess.

Back: not bending. Muscles: trembling. Demeanor: shaky.

After practice, Andrew and Jess told me they'd eaten pancakes for breakfast that morning. Pancakes! Doubtless covered in cream. Nothing like a bit of common sense to set one on an even keel.

As Jay-Z says, streets is talking, and the mean yoga streets of Encinitas is talking about the location of our new shala.

I don't want to say anything about the new spot just yet.

I'm fighting an immediate knee-jerk "Jesus-Christ-are-you-fucking-serious!" reaction. What I'm trying to say is that I'm still trying to process the information.

What else is yoga for, than to recognize our conditioned patterns of behavior?

Change is good, right? Things can't stay the same forever.

Right?

I'm trusting that regardless of where Tim hangs up his new shingle, he'll imbue it with the same degree of love and devotion as the last location.

I mean, we all gather because of The Big Guy (in this case, Tim. But through him, the Other Big Guy---Guruji).

We don't gather because of the studio space. The studio space will become a reflection of The Big Guy's personality.

So maybe the new spot is flash, but just like the last spot---which was funky, literally and figuratively---it's going to have the same vibe.

In New York City news, I've roughed out a practice spot for the next 10 days or so. And I am psyched!

So if you're in New York City and see a long-haired, string-bean guy with nut-hugger yoga shorts and characteristic tattoos (chief among them Hanuman, hence the blog name. Duh) at your studio---that's me.

I will not be lurking through the streets in the nut-hugger attire. Normallly I wear clothes. However, for a nominal fee, I will don my grape-smugglers and come to your house to perform a series of erotic dances for you and your friends.

I'm going to start an on-line poll: just how bummed do you think my work will be when I quit---again!---to go to India?

Since I've made up my mind to go again, the hardest part has been NOT going. Meaning, there's a tendency to make my target date earlier and earlier ...

Finally, in sartorial news, I have procured a new Morrisey shirt. It doesn't even say his name! It's just a picture of the young Mozzer! Thus far, it ranks as 05's hottest purchase. So so def.

Ladies! You can either form an orderly make-out line, or just tackle me en masse.

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.

I probably shouldn't have written about baddha konasana---because now the slim progress I've made will slip away again as my hips tighten like a fist. The Greeks called it hubris.

I was surfing Richard Freeman's website yesterday (don't ask why) and saw that he's written four (FOUR!) pages, using 9-point-sized font, on the subject of baddha konasana. Wow.

Here's a small sign of insanity for you. In my defense, keep in mind this was years ago. I went to Home Depot and bought two empty plastic sandbags for fifty cents each. Next, I walked down to the beach and filled 'em with sand so I had two 25-pound home-made sandbags.

I would get up an hour before practice and watch The Weather Channel with a sandbag on each thigh.

Every morning I would think, "Dear god, when will this nightmare stop?"

And because I was watching The Weather Channel, I would also think, "Dear Jesus, it's cold in other parts of the country!"

1. Kapotasana.
Is it possible to break one's spine in half? Just wondering, because it sure feels like it. Can your spine fall out of your back?

2. The Sand Castle Room at the Encinitas Best Western
Tim is asking that you refrain from hitting the wet bar until after practice.

3. "Trance Classics" Volumes 1 and 2
O the shame! The degradation! Yes, yes, a thousand times yes---I admit it, it's all true!

4. David Elsewhere
You call that twitching you're doing popping and locking? This is the real deal.

5. Two weeks with the Guru
I'm physically wiped out, but only realized it today. That led intermediate was gee-damn tough.

6. "Sin City"
It was too long, but there were some great moments, especially the grisly, hands-on demise of That Yellow Bastard. (Shades of Sonny Chiba's "Streetfighter"!) The very closing scene, obviously directed by Tarantino, was the only scene in the movie with a jittery, dread-filled spark of something real unfolding on the screen.

7. Speaking of "Sin City" …
Before making "Sin City," I wish director Robert Rodriguez had watched less Peckinpah and more Raoul Walsh, Sam Fuller, "Touch of Evil," Anthony Mann, Robert Aldrich, Jean-Pierre Melville, or even Budd Boetticher's later Westerns.

8. New York City
In two weeks …

9. Recipe for baddha konasana
Six days a week for three years, have a 185-pound man flatten you. Also, sit cross-legged every chance you get, all day, every day, for 18 months.

10. Bloc Party
The album is called "Silent Alarm."

11. Sheenon's tour shirts
"Ashtanga Yoga---Pure for Sure." And it's the Bharat Petroleum logo! Way too tight. Get one now, while supplies last. Or be reduced to envying mine.

12. Vajroli mudra VCD?
Who was in Mysore when that VCD was circulating, the one that showed that nutty British guy performing nauli kriya, dipping his Tiny Tim into a glass of milk, sucking the milk up his urethra, leaking it back into the glass---and then bloody winking at the camera? Jesus, how do I get a copy?

13. You can do drop-backs, but you're having trouble standing up.
Widen your feet one (and only one) inch.

A Santa Ana has gusted through Southern California, too, bringing with it 85-degree temps and flocks of butterflies. The air is crispy and ionized, charged with immanence and portent. Of what? Hopefully something good. Keep your eyes peeled for a virgin birth here in SoCal.

For those readers who demand to know my personal tastes, I've jumped from Jai Uttal's "Radhe Govinda" to a Ferry Corsten CD mixed live at Spundae. Who's Ferry Corsten, you ask? He's a fucking trance DJ!

There's this one part in "Digital Punk" when he drops the bass out and you hear the chanting, cheering crowd singing along. Then, as the break roars up, the entire audience sighs as one, a giant, amorphous body with no mind ... Corsten drops the bass and absolutely steamrollers the dancefloor. A room full of people goes absolutely apeshit.

I tell you, there's yoga out there in the clubs and tents, warehouses and dancefloors. It's just that getting to it in that context will wear holes in your soul.

(There was a similarly dramatic moment on that live Fatboy Slim record, when you can hear the crowd go ballistic during that cheesy yet triumphant house break.)

The Volvo is spectacularly dusty and filled with empty water bottles; a snorkel parka sits forlornly in the trunk, waiting for winter.

Today's practice: the Cabana Room. After practice, there were a million toast/croissant/bagel particles stuck to the bottom of my mat, as the Cabana Room is where the Best Western hosts its complimentary morning buffet for guests.

Mmm, toast particles.

Two weeks of the Guruji tour and I felt stronger than ever in practice, although perhaps it's attributable to the late hour (1 PM!), the tile floor (a harder surface), or the fact that an hour or so before I'd consumed my first ever hammerhead.

This variation of what must surely be an American invention---"Caffeine with extra caffeine? Sounds swell!---had two shots of espresso topped with coffee, shot through with condensed milk, and dusted with cinnamon.

Sweet Christ, I almost experienced rapture right there in the coffee shop, and it definitely made the Wittgenstein I'm reading ("Lectures on Aesthetics, Psychology, and Religion") go down smooth.

Music-wise, I'm trying to slide back into the death metal, but the black metal just works out so much smoother. This band Isis is killing it! Also copped a few Krishna Das albums, some Bloc Party for that Gang of Four feel, and a Spectrum album for droning guitar pulse.

My shameful secret: Community Resource Center Thrift Store, a couple hundred feet from the old shala. I like to go buy shitty (and I mean absolutely crappy) science fiction and fantasy books for a quarter, and then horror of horrors, read 'em. Then I donate 'em back. Sort of like a Dragonlance catch-and-release program.

But I can never turn down a good Mack Bolan ("The Executioner") or Destroyer book, either.

I ducked into the old shala today. The owner of Detour salon, the joint next door, took over the place, and is primed to knock through the walls to enlarge the salon.

The inside was totally gutted! Walls stripped and carpet gone! In a few places, the old color scheme---tan top, green bottom, bisected by purple---hung in abstract rectangles, but the rest was skeletal. She'd had to pull off the walls to bleach out the wood struts underneath to get rid of all the mold, and the carpet---well, obviously the carpet was headed for incineration.

Apparently the mold has permeated the walls, and was worst under the front windows.

I tell you, to see the studio gutted so brought a wee tear to the eye ... but only for a second, because as I said before, a room is just a room.

I got LA on tap for Tuesday ... and NYC in two weeks.

Tarik-from-Tokyo is 6-feet, 6-inches tall. The Best Western's Sand Castle conference room has ceilings that are maybe 8 feet tall. You do the math.

We were all crammed in there anyway, so it didn't really matter that there was a row of (mostly) pasty white appendages flapping about, catching unsuspecting yogis/yoginis unawares. Still, Tarik's one tall dude.

Tim brought his yoga studio jump-start kit---money box, sign-in sheet, incense, candles---everyone unrolled their mats, and we got to work. Just like that. A room is just a room, I guess, and what matters is the intent that fills it.

Nary a dry eye yesterday, the last on Guruji and Sharat's Encinitas stop. Like today, I practiced next to Andrew and Tarik, and had to dodge the requisite limbs. I was pretty fried physically after a week of led intermediate, and was glad for the first-series breather. Which I phoned in, might I add.

It was sad to say goodbye to so many people, and as I said, there was quite a bit of crying. (Never fear---as an incredibly masculine, macho, ass-kicking man, I didn't cry.)

It is so beautiful to come together for something like this, isn't it? Hundreds of people, unified in purpose, intent, and gratitude.

Yoga summer camp slides into week two. I've got the Portland contingent posted up in my living room---Casey and Sheenon have thankfully left the Oregon rain behind, and San Diego appears headed into summer.

We hammered through first series last week---sub-zero temps in the gym at 7 AM forced me to tuck socks in the pocket (Why not on my feet? Flip-flops or death!) for the pre-practice sit-around session.

Second series commenced this week; Sheenon was feeling out of sorts, so he sat out for today. After class, Casey and I grabbed food and coffee and returned to watch first series. The room was positively steaming hot. It was a magnificent sight. You could see an angled forest of diagonal legs or a sea of upturned faces.

We watched people sweating and straining, either trembling or floating, and listened to the deep, rhythmic breathing, ebbing and flowing like a slow, loud wave.

I whispered to Casey, "Yoga is so hard!"

Sometimes after a led-class savasana, Tim will say to the class, "That was a valiant effort." The sheer size of this morning's class compounded that feeling: 200 people gave up their Easter morning to practice together and pay their respects to this man whose teachings have meant so much.

Guruji, Sharat and Tim hosted the best conference I've ever been to last Wednesday night. They held it at the shala, and it was quite moving. I've never seen Guruji that engaged, rested, and excited. And then there was a reception for Guruji last night. But more on all this nonsense later.

As I mentioned, it's been yoga summer camp: yoga, coffees, breakfasts, lunches, dinners, get-togethers. Jesus Christ, has it been social. And fucking great. I can't lie. It's nice to get together with like-minded, passionate people.

Okay, we're playing lap-top wars in the living room, and I've got a date with a hot-tub.

I guess I could go more journalistic about this whole tour business, and write about the whos, wheres, hows, whats, whens, etc, etc. But the novelty of that has passed.

The tour stop in Encinitas is held in a giant, frosty gym. Today, there must have been roughly 200 people in there. They left the overhead lights off, which was quite nice. Guruji called out many sun salutations to fire up the heat.

During those extended chaturanga holds I have been saving my rotator cuffs by beaching myself like a whale---belly-up on my rug.

I observed Casey J. Palmer grabbing his ankles on the third backbend. I resist coveting, especially others' practices, but oooooh---it looked so neat.

Guruji was heading to a long uth pluthi count. He shouted at someone and tried not to smile at them. Failing to hide the smile, he called out "Ten!" and ended it. Laughter all around.

Two thoughts: One, leave the towel over your eyes in savasana and take as long as you want.

Two, the noise of people shuffling around for darshan, the cold blast of air from people unfurling their rugs, and the sound of talking before practice is Ma pullling you from the silly seriousness of this Shiva practice.

(I meet Ma every Tuesday and Thursday. She sets up her mat right in front of mine, then clears her throat loudly, deeply, and often. She's not sick---she's been doing it every day since September and there's no phlegm being cleared. She waits until we're in savasana to loose the really loud throat-clearers. Oh Ma, I love you.)

I might be imagining things, but Tim seems incredibly relaxed and happy. Shakti infusion from the guru?

In the darshan line today I told Guruji, "Thank you very much for teaching yoga to Tim Miller."

I like to think he understood, because his eyes glinted and his gaze sharpened.

I am so very grateful for what he has made possible.

The last time I can consciously recall finishing practice and, suffused with a physical, palpable sense of light-ness, spontaneously humming the names of god, was in India ...

... and this morning. Perhaps that ought to tell you something of the energy in Encinitas for Guruji's first two classes.

It's been more festive than anything---my friend Casey clocked over 300 people in the gym yesterday! There must have been close to 200 today.

And just like the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's album cover, close to everyone I've ever practiced yoga with is there, from distant friends to daily acquaintances. You're such a lovely audience, we'd love to take you home with us. Too, too sweet.

But dudes, can we turn the AC off?

(Tomorrow morning: thermal shirt, wool socks, knit cap, snorkel parka?)

Remember Mad Balls? God, I wish I had one, because I would hurl it at your head.

Remember those Carvel ice-cream TV commercials? I want a Cookie Puss right now. Mmmmmmm---Fudgie the Whale.

On my iTunes, Jai Uttal's "Radhe Govinda" just sequed into Raekwon's "Verbal Intercouse," Jai Uttal's sandstorm howl of "Radhe Govinda" followed by Nas' opening salvo, "Through the lights, cameras and action/ glamour glitters and gold/ I unfold the scroll, plant seeds to stampede the globe." Both good, both god? Yes.

Let's have a collective moment of silence for the closing of the Encinitas Ashtanga Yoga Center.

This morning was the last Mysore practice ever to be held at the E Street location; Guruji and co. are teaching for the next two weeks, and Tim has accordingly cancelled his classes.

The lease runs out March 30 ... and that's it. After 12 (13?) years, there will be a new studio. Whenever they find one ...

Everyone's been complaining about the mold smell, which did get particularly harsh this winter, especially after California's extended deluge. I thought Matsya, Vishnu's fish incarnation, was going to have to manifest to strap our ark to his horn ...

And it was better not to think too much about the studio's carpet. You didn't really want to know what you were rolling around on. Or whose sweat you were rolling around in. And those hairs stuck to my body are long, black, and kinky---i.e. not mine.

But the room had such a powerful feel to it---warm colors, high ceilings, natural lighting, photos of Guruji, statues of Hanuman, Virabadra, Shiva, et al. There was the faint, pleasant smell of clean sweat mixed with incense.

Tim's studio was the real deal. It was an accurate, authentic reflection of the studio's teachers and teaching.

Who cares if there was only one bathroom and no waiting area or "boutique"? People showed up in droves anyway.

And they'll continue to show up, regardless if Tim runs classes out of his garage or a conference room at the Best Western.

With a little sadness, we're on to the next space ...

I hope one day to see anyone and everyone who reads this there.

My Favorite Mantras
Maybe revealing your own personal mantras robs them of their power, but I thought I'd share anyway. I use these during the inhales, exhales and retentions of pranayama, as well as during moments of asana practice.

1. Shambo Shiva/Mahadeva Shiva
This one has some very powerful personal associations that stem from Mysore.

2. Bhajelo ji Hanuman
He's the monkey-faced god, friend of Ram, re-uniter of Ram and Sita, leaper of Lanka, son of the Wind, etc, etc. Such a friendly guy---why not ask him for help?

3. Om namah Shivaya
For the cleansing fire.

4. Nothin' to it but to do it.
This one helps counter avidya, asmita---basically, all the klesas that begin with "a."

5. Mmmm. Toast.
This one helps me through those late-in-the-morning practices, when all I can think about is eating some fucking food!

(Like me, you may substitute "toast" with "cereal," "muffin," "yogurt," "mango," "peanut butter and jelly sandwich," "banana," "omelette," or "egg muffin with cheese.")

6. Fuck it.
This one is pretty self-explanatory.

Popping and Locking
Maria was talking about her knee problem today. Now I'm hyper-consciously kneading my right patella like dough. I have no pain or anything ... but my right knee has clicked ever since the summer of 98, when I did an atomic knee-drop from the Foundation mini-ramp's six-foot-high deck straight to the flat-bottom.

It swelled up like a balloon and I was on crutches for a hot minute.

People ask me why I stopped skateboarding ... and don't really get it when I try to explain to them that often you don't skateboard so much as just fall down flights of stairs.

(As an aside and an example, my man Ryan just returned from shooting some photos for his upcoming shoe ad, and in the process he took three hits down a set of 17---straight from top to bottom.)

... and the list of my body parts that click, pop, and crack is long and illustrious. But still ...

Guru Shooters
It was absolutely wild the last time Pattabhi Jois came to town! My frat brothers and I caught a hotel room right next to the Boy's and Girl's Club, close to all the action. We totally trashed the room, just Jack Daniels, brown rice and tofu totally all over the place.

Before the morning classes, these hot yoginis would totally flash us because we were chucking mala beads to all of 'em. Guruji and Sharat stormed the stage to fireworks, and then at one point Sharat was suspended in a steel cage 40 feet over the crowd, and it totally started spinning! Guruji had a head-set microphone, and totally was like, "Encinitas! Are you ready to rock---Ekam! Dwi! Bad man! Bad lady!"

We all got totally crazy in the foam pit during standing poses. There were strobe lights firing off, and then they totally showed Joey doing eka pada paschimattasana on the Jumbotron. They totally had like 10 kegs throughout the room, and everyone was doing like, keg-stands during headstand! It was so hot!

We did that for like, a week, and I was totally wrecked! It was so totally killer! I bought this shirt that said, "Co-ed Naked Ashtanga Yoga---Encinitas 05."

I'm totally going back next year.

I'm trying a new tact for this blog business: less volume, higher frequency. Watch out, though---I've salted a bit of profanity in this one, because you know what? From time to time, I myself favor a bit of profanity in conversation.

There's that one song by that one band Sonic Youth where Thurston sings "It takes a teenage riot/ Just to get me out of bed." Don't you feel like that sometimes? No? Maybe it's just me.

I listen to my breath (I have loud thoughts, so loud breath), I follow correct drishti as much as I can, and the practice really demands a fierce amount of focus to link all those poses together like prayer beads ...

... but fuck it, I'm going to say it anyway. Spring has arrived, and spring fever along with it, so let me go on record as saying that you ladies are lookin' mighty good up in the shala.

I know, I know---that's not what we're all there for. At least, that's not what I'm there for. But as a friend once said to me, "It sure beats lookin' at dudes all day." Thank god for the shakti, because it helps balance such a Shiva-like practice.

(I probably shouldn't have even mentioned anything, because I know several people from the studio actually read this. Damn them for their Web savvy.)

Alcohol update: I was absolutely feelin' a half-glass of wine the other day. A half glass! Not hammered, mind you---but the door to hammered was definitely open. My non-existent frat buddies would be so disappointed. Keg stand? Beer bong? Beer shooter? Certain death.

I watched Gwyneth Paltrow at the Oscars last week---I'd like to take a poll of how many ashtangis annoyed everyone else in the room like I did at that point by saying, "She does ashtanga! Just like me!"

Speaking of celebrity ashtangis, I heard tell the only photos actually in Guruji's bedroom---not just his office, but upstairs in his house---are of Madonna. Who can confirm or deny?

That's actually pretty cute. Yet again, I'm reminded of Tim, who will think longer and speak less in response to a question than anyone save the Sphinx. Gregarious he ain't: "I've never met a saint."

Guruji is set to hit Encinitas in less than two weeks, and I bet heads are going to turn out en masse. Here's an open letter to all you older ashtangis, the ones who braved Guruji in the '70s and '80s: let's do this! I want some history up in that room.

Do you reckon people will be clawing for mat space like they do in Mysore? "Oh! Oh! I'm terribly sorry, there's been a tremendous mistake---I just feel so foolish about this! But you seem to have put your mat down in my space! I feel just horrible!"

I do look forward to sliding through first series with 200 other people, though---I expect to be veritably buoyed by the energy in the room.

I do not look forward to having to slide into those backbends immediately after, though. Ye gods.

Fans will doubtless be pleased to know the heavy metal high-water mark has been hit, and the waters are slowly receding as I turn to other, gentler, more yogically appropriate genres of music, such as polka.

How to identify a new age bookstore? Listen for chimes tinkling softly in the breeze, over the sound of burbling water, and sniff for the potpourri of incense, soap and candle scents. Time was in my life I'd have as soon lobbed a cinderblock through a new-age bookstore window as set foot in the place.

Incidentally, I'm pretty sure the statute of limitations has run out on that one, so don't bother ringing your lawyer.

Alt country? So hot right now. I've been running the Handsome Family: "This is why people OD on pills/ and jump/ from the Golden Gate bridge/ anything/ to feel weightless again." Dart to the heart.

For all the club kids no longer out running the late nights---e is a drug of diminishing returns, after all---I've also been running some Swayzak for that dirrrty laptop disko krunch. When you hear that grimy electro fuzz, it only makes sense to use "k"s.

I just re-read a book that I loved when I was younger---I'm not going to humiliate myself by repeating the title here, but suffice it to say I have a staggering weakness for sci-fi.

(Actually, I reckon I have a staggering weakness for crap books, and I've been known to scoop up armfuls of trash series like Dragonlance, The Executioner and The Destroyer at the thrift store. But I digress.)

Man, it really wasn't that great of a book. It really sneaks up on you---listening to music, reading a book, or watching a much-loved movie again, years and years later, and discovering that you don't really like it.

Sort of like visiting an old yoga teacher and knowing in your bones that you've outgrown them, or moved on, or even just moved over.

You want asana talk? What am I going to tell you that you don't already know from your own practice? "It all gets easier, just keep doing it."

For the record, it took me three years of practicing four to five times a week to get the strength to lift up and jump back. It took me roughly four years to sit in lotus.

Four years? I almost blacked out re-reading that last sentence because I'd buried the memory somewhere deep and dark.

This is some discursive-rambling-about-daily-minutia, in which I've used swear words, made a drug reference, and even admitted I think ladies who practice yoga are hottt (that's right---with three-Ts). On that note ...

It was a greenhouse in there today. During drop-backs I looked at the guy next to me, and it looked like we had both taken baths---both of us soaked head to toe, water beading and dripping into pools on the floor, hair wet and plastered, steam vaporizing, the whole nine.

I'm slacking on two levels right now, which makes me a multi-dimensional slacker. If I wanted to exercise the intellectual rigor, I'm sure I could extrapolate my slacking into all four of Ken Wilber's quadrants, which would make me an all-level, all quadrant slacker. Wait, does my recognition of that elevate my slacking to yet another dimension?

First, I'm supposed to be cobbling together some dialogue for some MTV Cribs segment as well as some consumer marketing communications. Second, I've actually started another blog entry on yoga, yoga consumerism, and the yoga industry. However, none of those options are remotely interesting to me at this time.

Therefore, I'm doing a list, because everyone loves reading lists. This list goes into effect from now until I post another one; however, never assume that I still think what's on this list is hot.

Can I even use the word "hot" anymore, or did Paris Hilton grind it into the dirt?

Oh well, on to the next.

So Hot Right Now!
Thursday, February 24

1. Lavash bread.
I have been killing it with veggie wraps lately. My secret: tahini.

2. Metal.
As in the music. For some reason, the black, stoner, doom and death genres have been sounding appreciably tangy. There is a band called Orange Goblin. They have a song called "Saruman's Wish." They absolutely shred! I could not make this up if I tried.

3. I heart kapotasana.
Forget what Yoga Journal tells you, everyone should be doing this backbend. It'll spike your nervous system, rattle your soul in its very cage, and make you pee your spandex nut-hugger yoga shorts.

4. Which brings me to urdhva dhanurasana.
Just as sweet as his cousin kapotasana, urdhva dhanurasana is coming in hot this month. I've been on the Mysore brand of back arches lately, just to see how they feel: up for five breaths, rest on the head for one, up for five breaths ... three times, two sets daily.

5. We end with low back pain.
I've been pretty good about never, ever having any, over the entire course of my yoga practice. Until last week. Hot damn, everyone was right! Back pain sucks! Thankfully it's receded over the past few days, and I'm optimistically chalking it up to an "opening."

6. Australians
You people are so friendly! Except for the drunken head-butting thing, that is.

7. Grape Nuts
The secret: sugar. Heaps and heaps of it.

8. A 2001 Volvo V70 T5 wagon
It's long, it's black, and your wife wants to go for a ride. 'Nuff said.

(I'm actually pretty gassed about having a car that starts. Every single time I put the key in the ignition!)

9. Sankalp
I'm not showing you mine until you show me yours. But suffice it to say I have been attempting to refine the roaring heat of tapas into a laser-beam of precise intention.

10. Shiva as Bhairava
These last few weeks, I've taken to offering up my practice to Shiva ... and I've been considering modifying that to Bhairava, a particular emanation of Shiva.

Bhairava is the embodiment of fear, and it is said that those who meet him must confront the source of their own fears. What if meeting Bhairava is one of your fears? I'm scared to aim my intentionality in that direction, because who knows what would arise?

I guess in this instance Hanuman might help, with his strength, faith and love.

11. Mold
Just to bring this back down to some secular ish, I'm really starting to love burying my face in moldy carpet in the studio, a result of the recent deluge that's drowned Southern California.

12. No TV
Where'd it go? Why don't I miss it?

13. Spring NYC Trip
It's in the works ...

14. The new Morrisey album
Morrisey has dropped some hammers on this one. Don't be scared to admit that the Mozzer still has some chops.

15. My back
Forget all the Cirque du Soleil jumping-around bandha histrionics. Will my back ever bend?

The Situationists had something going on ... I like Debord a lot, but Vaneigem is the poet:

"Certainly, the perspective engendered by having to pass away one's life in a factory or an office in order to make the month's rent money is not one that is inclined towards the exaltation of dreams of happiness and the harmony that nourishes infancy."

"Education has to do with the creation of human beings, not with the production of commodities. Will we have revoked the absurd despotism of gods if we have tolerated the fatalism of an economy that corrupts and degrades life on the planet and in our everyday existence?"

"The only defense available to us is the will to live, allied with the consciousness that propagates it. Judging by the capacity of human beings to subvert what kills them, this will can be an invincible weapon."

Homies
You never know who's going to walk through the studio door.

In the last week, on three separate occasions, I've unexpectedly run into three friends from Mysore.

It's very gratifying to know that the personal connections I made over there have withstood the withering glare of day-to-day life. Grumpy Mysore detractors say what they will ... there's still something going on there.

Witch's Boobs and Well-diggers' Butts
My heart and thermal underwear goes out to anyone slogging to class and then practicing in sub-zero temps. Although it's less uncomfortable now than ever before, I still really dislike practicing in cold-ass weather.

I was reminded of this after listening to Mysore homie Jeff's descriptions of biking to practice in NYC, the mercury at 10 below with the wind chill.

Tim's studio doesn't have a waiting room, entryway, hall, or foyer. It's just one big room with a door. All year round, we wait for class out on the sidewalk.

An incredible luxury for which I am eternally greatful.

Ladies, Ladies---Please! Wait Your Turn!
2001 Volvo V70 T5 wagon: photos coming soon.

Damn Right
tad-artha eva drsyasyatma
The universe exists to set us free.
—Yoga Sutras II.21

Ah, the Stoics
Everything is right for me, which is right for you, O Universe. Nothing for me is too early or too late, which comes in due time for you. Everything is fruit to me which your seasons bring, O Nature. From you are all things, in you are all things, to you all things return.
—Marcus Aurelius

... And From that Many, One
The whole drift of my education goes to persuade me that the world of our present consciousness is only one out of many worlds of consciousness that exist.
—William James

Sthira Sukham Asanam
At times of great stress it is especially necessary to achieve a complete freeing of the muscles.
—Konstantin Stanislavsky