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Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.

6/06/2005

DIARY OF INDIGNITIES
Big Ron = No Boner
I reckon any discussion of shame here is going to ring pretty false, what with me occasionally exposing my pee-hole to the world and such.

And while it's true that I'm not exactly wallowing in the stuff, I do feel shame. Sometimes. Of a sort. Etc. Even though my good friend Anatol Blass, a bona fide smarty-pants if there ever was one, once told me, "Shame just gets in the way of a good time." Or maybe he said self-esteem? You get the picture. Anyway, Anatol has a real-life Ph.D. in physics and somehow landed a wife who is so far out of his league in the hotness department that people stop on the street, point, and stare when they walk by, so you should listen to him and not sweat that shame business.

Of course, Anatol did light his penis on fire during a high-spirited moment gone slightly awry at Caryn and Sean's wedding, and had to douse it with toilet water to avoid injury... I really need to tell that story sometime. But, for now at least, I feel like it's important that you just be made aware of this event when considering Anatol's advice. Seek balance in everything.

...Wait a minute, what the fuck did I just say? "Seek balance in everything?" Where the hell did that come from?! Is that one of those goddamn Free to Be You and Me songs? No... Wait. I know where it came from. Fuck, this is exactly the sort of thing I was worried about.

See, I was feeling a little shame yesterday, skulking around with an armload of VHS cassettes like a dungeon master trying to sneak a batch of Sybil Danning movies past Mommy. But it wasn't low-grade soft-porn I was hiding — no, my collection of that enjoys a prominent display in my house, on the shelf right next to Godzilla humping Barbie and... What? No, not there, around the corner past the meth lab. Yes, there. No, you can't borrow them. And those are action figures, not "dolls," thankyouverymuch.

Anyway, my shame was born of yoga.

Look, I don't want to hear it. Flexibility, of which I have exactly none, is a key part of effective kickboxing. Yeah, that's right, smart-ass — I said kickboxing. So if you don't want me to yoga my shin up your ass, you'll clam up, and pronto.

To tell the truth, I've been intrigued by yoga for a while now. When I was younger, it seemed like yoga advocates were all either doughy hippies who smelled like patchouli or wiry but impenetrably foreign guys who smelled like turmeric. There was this one beardy dude who always did yoga in this one open courtyard at the university, and he seemed like he was in good shape, but he also lived in a field and never wore a damn shirt, and one time he was doing some kind of complicated upside-down thing and I looked over and one of his nuts had flopped out of his jean shorts, right there in front of God and everybody. Ugh.

Nowadays I know a couple of broads who teach yoga and do that shit all the time, and you know what? They're hot. So hot that I don't even care that they're total hippies who smoke weed and everything. I'm telling you — hot. If their nuts flopped out you'd totally look; I just know it. They're all lean and muscley, but in a cool, flexible way, and let me tell you, if there are four words nobody's using to describe me, they're "lean," "muscley," "flexible" and "cool." So I figured I could use a little of that action.

I got me that Yoga For Dummies off Netflix and also hoofed it over to my beloved downtown library, where I navigated through the bums, poked through the VHS tapes and skittishly darted over to the fishing videos every time I heard someone approaching.

I thought about going to a class or something to learn that shit, but was a little worried about making my hippie debut in public. Also, I wasn't sure what the boner etiquette was for yoga class, and chances are I'd be sporting one of those before long, and I kind of didn't want to, you know, call up and ask.

There is a place down the street from me called — not making this up, cousin — Big Ron's Yoga College, which is a fucking awesome name for a yoga place, and very reassuring to a guy like me, who's a little wary of all those places named shit like Meadow Leaf's Incense Grotto of Ayurvedic Serenity and the All-Seeing White Light Temple of Scientology Indoctrination. The hippie joints might be chock full of hot babes like my friends, or I might even end up in one of their classes. And boner or not you just know that shit is going to eventually get me into some kind of trouble. Chances are, though, watching someone named Big Ron bend over isn't going to give you a hard-on. But I bet if it did he'd be really cool and understanding and non-judgmental about it. Maybe you'd go out with Big Ron after class and get a pitcher and some wings and talk about it, have a few laughs and then be friends forever.

The deal-breaker for Big Ron, though, was the fact that he costs money, and the library tapes are free. Browsing through the selection there just reinforced my impression that I'm a statistical outlier in the world of yoga demographics. Everything was either insufferably cosmic (serene photos on the cover, vaguely Sanskrit-looking font, lots of earth tones) or hosted by Kathie Lee and intended for the elderly (day-glo and cheery, like David Lee Roth's pants or a 1985 Trapper Keeper folder after chugging half a two-liter of Jolt). I chose a few from some series called Power Yoga because, well, they had "power" in the title, and that was the closest any of 'em came to "fighting" or "ass-kicking." Hey! If there are any yoga creeps reading this, you should cobble together a tape called Ass-Kicking Yoga for Fights. There's definitely some untapped market potential there, at least around my house.

I ran by the gym on the way home and did some leg-presses and a few sets of squats, hoping none of the gym dudes could detect the yoga taint, and then went home and threw in Yoga For Dummies. It started out demonstrating some basic stuff. I followed along and did it, and noticed that it really stretched your shit out and definitely took a lot of effort to do 'em right, and mostly didn't seem quite as, um, made-up as all that other hippie stuff, like astrology and peace and wheat grass.

I did, however, skip the somewhat traumatic cat pose. (Way back on prom night I swore I'd never find myself in that position again.) But it all went pretty well. For the most part the chick demonstrating everything skipped preposterous claims, and though I found her kind of patronizing in tone I relaxed after remembering that it was after all designed for use by dummies.

I finished that, and a-flush with enthusiasm decided to fire up some Power Yoga and really get down. The tape began and some mostly naked Asian dude named Rodney gazed out of the TV, radiating so much peacefulness and mystical insight at me that I started getting a tan. Somehow, I suddenly found myself even more embarrassed than I was at the library, where I hid my tapes behind the biggest book with guns on the cover that I could find in case someone I knew saw me. I got up and closed the curtains, and I don't even bother to do that when I'm watching porno.

Soon Rodney, who if you ask me could've used a little more coverage in the fabric department, was sitting next to a rock and a cactus or two and going on about listening to the wisdom of the universe and letting go of childhood trauma in a way that projected just a little too much personal intimacy for me. A minute or two later, Rodney got started, stretching his man-parts up into the camera and I shut him off, just cutting my losses before I got too into it and had to drastically rethink my lifestyle. I kind wanted to hang onto my beloved childhood traumas, too. And not necessarily add any new ones, at least any that involved watching a magical naked Asian dude on my TV.

Today, despite the Power Yoga leaving me feeling a little queasy, I got up and did my poses. I even paid attention to my breathing. It was alright, too. I think I'm going to keep it up. Though I might have to start just calling them "stretches."

Oh, and you know what? Last night I said fuck it and ate some tabouleh for supper too. Had a little yogurt, of all things, for dessert. Namaste, bitch.

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