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 ...