It's About Time

Hard work pays off in the future. Laziness pays off now.
Steven Wright

Loyalty to petrified opinions never yet broke a chain or freed a human soul in this world--and never will.
Mark Twain

... There are times I feel I'm new and different...like the past is just a series of harsh cocoons I’ve sloughed off...left in a pile I can sort through if necessary, but no more parts of my self right now than banana peels and apple rinds tossed in yesterday's compost...leaving me nothing to do but grow....and there are other times I feel like I’ve never left high school...or nursery school...or my first experience of unrequited love...or my second...or third...or tenth...or that gradual, mostly forgotten disillusionment that comes to all of us when we realize our parents aren’t actually omnipotent, omniscient, or even omnibenevolent...

...just as I was writing that, got a spam e-mail, advertising products meant to temporarily ease the downward pull of time on male sex organs...which, if I’m to believe the official date and time, was sent at 8:55 on September 3rd, 1938...

...a little while ago was in the car listening to some early Stones...Aftermath...that collection of classic rock n' roll riffs, bad vibes, crude misogyny, and angst released just in time to mark the birth of the late 60’s love generation...not to mention my own birth....and opening, on the American version, at least, with Paint It, Black...which has that legendary sitar riff, followed by Charlie Watts’ drums pounding like the heartbeat of someone nearly consumed by dark anxiety...and I can’t listen to it without thinking about just how goddamn good it ain’t easy facing up when your whole world is black sounded when I was sixteen...which, at this point, makes the song a refreshing reminder of how much better right now is than those fabled best years of my life....and how, all in all, my thirties were better, if less exciting, than my twenties...as my twenties, for all their problems, were almost infinitely better than my teens...so, though my forties haven't been without difficulties so far, they still have a long way to go, and I seem to be on an upward slide...

Painted Fire

Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself.
Mark Twain

...a while ago, most excellent yoga blogger Brooks wrote about an article in The Sun magazine by Wendell Berry called Why I Am Not Going to Buy a Computer...having read both, I left a comment...which, as my comments tend to do, veered away into rambling that had very little to do with what I was commenting on....now, in the spirit of Earth Day, I’m gonna recycle part of it here, while, as Yoga for Cynics posts tend to do, rambling on even further....

...I like to think of myself as a Luddite...with a blog and an ipod...but no air conditioning, and a cell phone that doesn’t take pictures or show movies...so can relate somewhat to a stodgy rejection of the digital age...seeing it as another expensive burden, another obstruction standing in the way of traditional human connections...even if it’s formed new kinds of connections as we converse effortlessly and instantly with people on the other side of the world...however many painful misunderstandings may ensue as we continue struggling to figure out the rules for a brave new radically smaller world...

....then, one could say the same of any technological innovation...including, certainly, the manual typewriters Luddite writers tend to be so proud of...as if the sages of old used them to write their sacred scriptures (note: they didn’t)...as well any form of mass communication...movable type, without a doubt...and, certainly, we can’t forget the invention of writing itself...I mean, just imagine: there was a time...for much of human beings’ tenure on earth, in fact...when a relatively close level of physical intimacy was required for any communication...to hear what another person thought, you would have to be close enough to hear that person’s voice...most likely looking into his or her face...and, chances are, you would rarely speak to anyone you hadn’t known for your or their whole life...all communication was close communication...

...then, if the invention of writing was alienating, it can’t have held a candle to the invention of words themselves...before which, I can only assume, communication must have been accomplished solely by facial expressions, and subtle—or not so subtle—gestures...and touching...no representing by phonemes or anything else...no abstraction at all...

Who needs action when you got words?
the Meat Puppets

...was writing last week...for myself...had a point, to begin with, but ended up kinda listing everything I’d been up to, or thinking about...without really exploring anything...then started getting self-reflective...about how I was just catalonging stuff...was about to fix that...make it cataloging...but decided I liked it better the way it was...listing stuff in seeming aimlessness as an expressing of longing for...what?...something more meaningful to write about? something to come up in the list that’ll catch fire and glow with transcendent meaning? or, maybe, something that couldn’t be written about at all...but that I wanted to express nonetheless...leaving me nothing but catalonging...

...while writing, was listening to the Blood on the Tracks album...in Tangled Up in Blue it sounds like Dylan sings I murdered something underneath my breath rather than I muttered...and if so, would that mean he had something meaningful to express that not only couldn’t be said aloud, but shouldn’t, under pain of death?...it’d have to be shouldn’t...you don’t murder something just because it couldn’t...

News You Probably Can't Use #1

The surest way to corrupt a young man is to teach him to esteem more highly those who think alike than those who think differently.
Nietzsche

...was just reading about a kid marrying a dog in India...apparently to prevent him from being eaten by wild animals...and, not long ago, read about an Indian woman being married to a snake, which was apparently seen as a god (google it yerself, dammit)...don’t worry, I’m not bringing this stuff up to make fun of a foreign culture I don’t understand...nor am I gonna bend over backwards to defend it, as yoga types are wont to do with anything involving the oh-so spiritual nation of Indyaaaah...

...I do find it a bit ironic, though...as oh-so spiritual American politicians argue that, if gays and lesbians are allowed to marry, next thing you know people will be tying the knot with their pets...that it is, in fact, in a country where homosexuality is illegal that people are marrying dogs and snakes...

Cocaine is God's way of telling you you are making too much money.
Robin Williams

...the world’s most expensive coffee is called Kopi Luwak...it’s made of beans eaten by a creature known as the palm civet and then excreted by it...the stuff sells for up to $600 lb....

...another sign you’ve got too much money: you pay high prices to drink coffee made from beans that have passed through a jungle rodent's asshole....

All generalisations are false, including this one.
Mark Twain

EXCLUSIVE: The Yoga for Cynics Interview (yeah, I know...big whoop...)

The following is an *exclusive* interview with Yoga for Cynics, conducted by legendary blogger Kim with a K:

1. What is your favorite line from a song or book and why? Does it relate to a specific occurrence in your life?

...umm...dunno any quotes...except maybe George Harrison, show me that I’m everywhere, and get me home for tea...substitute coffee for tea and it’d sum up most occurrences described in this blog....okay, here’s a line from an actual book, even if it requires a hell of a lot of explanation...and, just to be a pain in the ass, I’m not even gonna reveal the name of the book or its author (and it’s really obscure, so there’s no way you’ll guess): basically, this runaway kid on a raft has to decide what to do about his friend, a runaway slave....as he's imbibed the official morality of his time and place, from which he's learned that stealing is a sin, and a slave is property, there’s only one moral course of action....but, alas, he simply cannot bring himself to do the right thing..."All right, then, I'll go to hell"....It was awful thoughts, and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out of my head; and said I would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn't. And for a starter, I would go to work and steal Jim out of slavery again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too; because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as well go the whole hog....thus, ending up making the compassionate choice not because but in spite of what religion tells him is right....

2. You have to choose any person, living or dead, to write your biography. Who and why?

Probably a dog. They tend to see only the best in me.

3. Someone once said that destiny is a fickle bitch. Has this been true in your life and how?

I don’t believe in destiny. Then, that could be because I'm destined not to believe in it....

4. When was a time you realized that you were in over your head?

I’ve often felt that way about life in general...though, when put to the test, it generally turns out not to be the case...that I’m actually held down by a lousy self-image....

5. Were you one of the millions who hated adolescence (high school in particular) or did you enjoy it?

In all seriousness, and knowing exactly how politically incorrect and irresponsible such a statement is, I think getting into marijuana as a teenager probably saved my life...since getting high was at least one thing other than masturbation that gave me hope that happiness might still be possible when life seemed like one giant shit-hole of alienation and misery....yes, I know, responsible readers are thinking you should have gotten some professional help...to which I reply: no, thank you, that was part of the problem....there’s no better way to tell your kids that they’re fucked up than to stick them in therapy...and if you wanna tell them they’re hopelessly fucked up, put them in therapy multiple times a week, in addition to group therapy with kids who are really severely fucked up, so that every one of them will be like a mirror saying this is you...abandon all hope....
Disclaimer to any young & impressionable folk who might have read the above: anywhere drugs can take you, you can get to on your own, without the negative side effects....remember: your crappy school is not the world, and neither is your dysfunctional family....if they don’t like you for who you are, think you should be more like them, or won't let you be one of them, treat you like you’ll never live up to their standards...take it as a compliment, and consider yourself lucky that their limitations will never be yours, that you’ll never need their approval....namasmotherfuckingte....

Bonus: Can you name all five of the Great Lakes from east to west without looking at a map or any other resource?

Ontario, Erie, Michigan, Superior, Huron...[checking a map]...DOH!


Post-script: in response to a comment from Melinda, I've substituted "marijuana" for "drugs" in the first sentence of #5 above. While the remark may still be highly objectionable to many, I want to be clear that I'm not talking about the harder drugs. I am also not advocating use of marijuana, or any drug, as I hope is made clear. The only addictive behavior that is advocated by me or this blog is yoga...and maybe coffee....

Hope, Joy, Misery, & Lindsay Lohan

The reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.
Mark Twain

Really Important Announcement: Yoga for Cynics is not coming to an end, despite any and all disdain expressed for the internet in that last post....I was talking about all the other crap on-line, consuming my precious time like a cat unhappily placed on a diet finding freshly baked key lime pie carelessly left within reach on a kitchen counter (and no, I’m not ticking away the precious hours looking at porn, as a commenter who will not be named so outrageously suggested—though, okay, maybe, after all that stuff about masturbation in the previous post, I had it coming) (no pun intended) (jeezus, getcher minds outta the gutter, people) (and of course I’m definitely not talking about any of the wonderful sites affiliated with the erudite, interesting and really, really good looking people who read this blog) (particularly not those of Lydia or Fancy Sweden, who’ve recently been kind enough to give me blog awards). (Listen, I check out important news, then hit links for less important news, then completely unimportant news, then stuff that really isn’t news at all, and then...basically, end up knowing way too much about Lindsay Lohan’s personal life, particularly since I’ve never even seen any of her movies) (oh wait...was she in Mean Girls? Okay, I saw that one...but my point stands). Anyway....

There’s this obscure Dylan song with even more obscure lyrics, each verse ending all I see are dark eyes...always seemed like one of those vague free association things with some good lines that didn’t really add up to anything...Dylan’s written a few of them...but then I read Chronicles: Volume 1 where he describes walking into a hotel lobby and seeing a call girl walking out with two black eyes...they tell me to be discreet, for all intended purposes, they tell me revenge is sweet, and from where they stand I’m sure it is, but I feel nothing for their game, where beauty goes unrecognized, all I feel is heat and flame, and all I see are dark eyes....

Did Beethoven write the 9th Symphony despite being deaf and lonely and old and washed up and all that? I’m inclined to think it was more because of it—not in some stupid romantic sense, fetishizing depression as a source of inspiration rather than something that deadens. No, more in the sense that, in such murky darkness, he had to find some amazing light if he was gonna live at all....

Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy, it is the wine of a new procreation, and I am Bacchus who presses out this glorious wine for men and makes them drunk with the spirit.
Ludwig Van Beethoven

Thomas Jefferson famously cut up the New Testament to create what’s known as The Jefferson Bible or The Life and Morals of Jesus and Nazareth—essentially an Age of Reason holy book, portraying a moral philosopher, without all the miracles and such. I don’t think that was a bad idea, though it’s kinda like reading Moby Dick to learn about whaling. Then, I guess that’s how most people read it, anyway...seeing walking on the water as walking on the water, rather than a metaphor for hope—the impossible that sometimes isn’t....

Is That Supposed To Be Funny??!!

The secret source of humor is not joy, but sorrow; there is no laughter in heaven.
Mark Twain

Did I really promise in that last post that I was gonna be funny in this one? Damn...there’s nothing worse than telling people you’re gonna be funny...that’s why I hate most stand-up comedy...especially, the I’m just a regular guy who’s gonna stand here and talk to you regular people and make some funny observations that you can relate to about regular day-to-day life kind of stand-up comedy...bleah...it’s much better to be angry-funny like Chris Rock, or horrified-by-the-outrageousness-of-what’s-going-on-in-America-funny like Jon Stewart, or severely-manic-if-not-coked-to-the-gills-funny like Robin Williams (not to be confused with the so-desperate-to-make-you-love-him-that-he’s-not-funny Robin Williams, the actor)...I, generally speaking, only find out I’m being funny when people tell me...see the predicament?

It’s such a fine line between stupid and clever.
David St. Hubbins, This is Spinal Tap

I was talking to somebody about my personal favorite Yoga for Cynics post...god, I also hate it when bloggers are self-referential...then, I kinda can’t stand that in general...even though I’m a huge fan of one of the seminal texts of postmodern metafiction, There’s a Monster at the End of This Book, starring Lovable Furry Old Grover (also a penetrating exploration of modern man—or, y’know, monster—in confrontation with his own id—kinda like Heart of Darkness for kids, and what could be more avant-garde than that?) (never mind that it’s been disgracefully overlooked by the literary critical establishment; so was William Blake)...and now, I’m being, like, meta-self-referential...and horribly ironic in the most pretentious postmodern kind of way...somebody could write a goddamn dissertation on this post...good god...the horror, the horror....

And, if I have been a little malicious, well, one must amuse oneself.
Madame Merteuil, Les Liaisons Dangereuses

Anyway...it was the one called Probably Not the Best Example of Loving Kindness, in which I talked about cursing somebody out—in a bit of rather obviously ill-advised bicycle-on-car road rage—on the way to yoga class. People have suggested that I probably wouldn’t have done that on the way home from yoga class...and they’re probably right. In fact, I may be able to provide an illustrative anecdote...jeeezus, did the pretentious academic in me just pipe up again? Never mind...this one time, I think it was last winter, I’d just gotten home from a class with legendary yoga teacher Jennifer Schelter, and walked, with a spring in my step, feeling optimistic and full of good feeling toward my fellow human beings...really...up to my local coffee shop, the High Point Cafe...now, this place is kind of a center of my friendly little community (West Mt. Airy, State of Caffeinated Stupor, USA). The place was packed. However, just as I got my coffee, two older women were standing, putting coats on and clearing dishes away from the table where they’d been sitting. I asked if they were leaving, and one of them said “yes” as they moved away from the table and I set my coffee down. Seeing a couple of crumpled up napkins left on the table, I decided to be helpful and throw them out. Upon turning back to the table however, I was confronted by the other woman, who, in a voice more like a low, mentally unbalanced hiss, said “you’re a bit of an asshole, aren’t you?” I said “excuse me?” “Putting your coffee down on the table before we’ve left...” she intoned, almost shaking with rage. “But...you had your coats on...you said you were leaving...you were walking away from it...” I sputtered as she turned her back, perhaps with a final muttered asshole for good luck. My good mood kinda dissipated. While my friends behind the counter more than sympathized, and joked about it, I was really really upset—all the more so because I’d been in such a good mood before this little incident happened. Why the hell, I thought, did this have to happen when I was feeling so good?

Then, however, I asked myself the question: how might I have reacted if I hadn’t been in such a peaceful, positive mood? Let’s just say it’s a good thing I went to yoga class that morning....