I like Chicago Diners

Within five miles, shooting out in any direction from the house in which I grew up, were at least six diners. I'm defining "diner" as a restaurant with the following characteristics:

1) An extensive menu featuring at least some items that could be described as inappropriately ethnic (e.g. chop suey in a restaurant owned by Greeks)
2) Breakfast must be available whenever the restaurant is open
3) The restaurant has a robust smoking session, often peopled with alcoholic anonymous refugees
4) Cops have to eat there a lot, and
5) If not open twenty-four hours (much preferable) the restaurant should open very early and stay open very late.

In turn, there are a few standard unwritten diner rules:

1) If you're smart, you stuck to the basics. The chop suey could be dangerous. Hamburgers, scrambled eggs, etc. were the way to go.
2) If you fail to leave a tip, you are an idiot, regardless of how poor you might be. Those waitresses work their asses off.
3) No diner waitresses are ever hot.
4) You stand by the rotating cake case and wait for a booth or table.
5) Booths are better than tables.

I grew up in Chicago's Norwood Park neighborhood. Now, when I lived there, Norwood Park was a conservative Catholic working class enclave. Most residents were firemen or policemen, or they worked in some other profession that required one to live within the city limits. You see, Norwood Park is about as far northwest in the Chicago city limits as a person can go. The last few stations on the O'Hare line sit on the last few miles of the Kennedy Expressway. I understand that now Norwood Park is a more desirable place to live, especially in the neighborhood we called "The Circle". The houses in "The Circle" were old mansions that, I'm sure, appeal to the affluent building rehabilitation set. I don't know the new Norwood Park well. I've been gone from Chicago for close to eight years, and I didn't live in Norwood Park the last few years I lived in Chicago. I know the Norwood Park of the seventies and eighties, back when retirees and city workers looking for reasonable housing in a neighborhood noticibly free of minorities (and don't think the racism was hidden...you should have heard my dad and his friends talk) populated the area.

And we all ate at diners.

Think about it. If you're a cop, or a teacher, a retired guy living off a pension, or a teenager with only a couple bucks on you, the diners were your story. Sure, Higgins Avenue featured an Asian place or two, over near Harlem, and a pizza place stood on every few corners, but if you just wanted normal food, and you wanted to go out in the neighborhood, chances are you gravitated toward one of the diners. Let me walk through the advantages for a sample of subgroups:

1) Families could usually find at least one item that the kids could eat, since the menus often featured four or five pages covered with tiny black print.
2) Retirees could sit at the counter and drink coffee without getting bothered much by the waitresses or the somewhat suspicious owner (often from a foreign country).
3) Cops, firemen, etc., took advantage of the expansive hours and both 1 and 2.
4) Teenagers could drink hot tea or get fries for a couple of bucks then sit in the booths for hours. This was especially handy mid-winter.

I want to be clear that I'm not romanticizing diners much, although I do want to pay tribute to what they've meant in my life. Some of the diners were bad, and no amount of memory-coloring is going to transform Mr. K's godawful food into edibility. What I liked about the diners in my old neighborhood, however, is the idea that everyone in a diner spoke my cultural language. From the waitresses to the way you stood and waited for a table near the rotating cakes to the four in the morning breakfasts, I knew where I stood and never felt self-conscious (unless, as a teenager, I took a date to one, I suppose) within their walls. If I were to return to one of the diners today and discover they've adopted tofu hamburgers or something, I hope, at least, that the new items are isolated in tiny print on a new page six. I also want to make it clear that the cool hipster Chicago diners (like that horrible one in Wicker Park, the Busy Bee, I think it's called) absolutely do not count in this conversation for reasons I would think are obvious. Were the denizens of these establishments to show up, accidentally, at, say, The Golden Flame, I would hope they would be dealt with swiftly and severely. Cool yuppie hipsters looking for a backdrop to cocktail party stories should be stopped at the door and escorted to the parking lot by a Polish waitress weighing at least three hundred and fifty pounds. In the parking lot she should threaten the interlopers with sexual favors or at least boozy kisses. Stay out of my childhood, you bastards.

Ok, these are the big six Norwood Park diners, in descending order for worst to best. I have no idea if they are still open, as I haven't been back to the neighborhood for a few years.

6) The Skylark, just east of Higgins and Harlem. The Skylark loses points first and foremost because of its short hours. I think it was more of a lunch place. I remember almost nothing about its food. The better dressed old folks hung out at the Skylark. It was small, dark, and way more clean than the other restaurants on this list. I think the almost grandmotherly cleanliness and bad hours kept us away. I ate there once with my brother. I can't remember another visit.

5) Mr. K's, just south of Higgins and Harlem. Mr. K's smelled like horribly burnt grease, like they ran a vent from the grill and piped the stale air right above your table. I hated that fucking place, but my hippie brother liked it, so we had to go there sometimes (I remember once, in particular, before a Neil Young concert). Mr. K's was more open, in terms of space, then other diners, and resembled a larger, remodeled McDonald's (down to the huge glowing "K" sign) with sparse, tasteless food.

4) The Big Top, just east of Nagle and Higgins. The Big Top claimed to have "World Famous Fountain Creations", so perhaps, somewhere in Vienna, learned scholars are discussing the merits of the Big Top hot fudge sundaes. The Big Top was huge with the morning factory crowd. The restaurant featured a row of booths next to a long glass window. The food was servicable, I suppose, but the bathrooms were disgusting.

3) The Golden Flame, on the southwest corner of Nagle and Higgins. My mom liked The Golden Flame. We went there for Thanksgiving dinner once (really!) and she ordered the turkey. Her order interested both my brother and myself because nobody in our family ever went that deep into the menu, even on a food-related holiday. Kudos to my mom for taking a huge risk. A white slab of turkey arrived and my mother pronounced it decent. I remember a lot of the precinct captains headquartered in the Golden Flame's dark back booths. My brother claims the owner kicked him out when he tried to make a phone call in the entryway while not wearing shoes. He has not forgiven the establishment despite the fact he lives in Boulder, Colorado, and visits Chicago once every five years. About ten years ago the Golden Flame added a room for wedding receptions. I'm not sure, in turn, if the restaurant still counts underneath the diner definition. This will take some thought.

2) Sally's, right across the street from Mr. K's. Now, Sally's was bigge than the others on this list, with at least two large dining rooms. The restaurant made a claim similar to the Big Top, but not as extensive, concerning the fame of its apple pancakes. Sally's sign said only the apple pancakes were famous, rather than "world famous" and, truth be told, I agree. I've had people from all over the city refer to Sally's as the "apple pancake place", so I can't fault the owners for their advertising. Sally's always seemed a bit more ambitious than its rivals, anyway. They added extra space onto the building at least a couple of times that I remember. I had nothing against Sally's. The food was fine, reliable, and the lighting wasn't too harsh. I don't think they were open all night, though.

1) The Blue Angel, at the corner of Northwest Highway, Foster, and Milwaukee (probably officially in Jefferson, not Norwood, Park) . The Blue Angel is, in my eyes, my cultural ground zero. My friends from the city seem utterly confused by this, but I love that restaurant. I drank hot tea there when I could hardly afford the water. I have seem many friends vomit and/or fall asleep on the tables, although I have never done either myself. The food was consistent and plentiful, and the waitresses wore these huge black tents that passed as uniforms and little white hats. My friend Dan once tried to buy beer there, when we were underage, and the waitress laughed at him. What's not to like? To me, the Blue Angel is the model, the template, for a great diner. Open twenty-four hours, too.

I Get Yelled At Sometimes

I am an academic administrator at a small university, so I get to interact with other adults from a power position. You would think that the power associated with academia would minimize overt hostility aimed in my direction. After all, at least in theory, I could delay graduation or reduce a grade point average.

Actually, I get yelled at sometimes, and I don't think the power associated by some with my position allows me to get away with much.

Now, this is one of those situations in which I need to be clear, more clear than usual, that I'm sharing my perceptions and others might think I'm entirely off-base. So be it. I think I'm a decent guy. I try to remain fair and share leadership. I know I won't be able to keep people happy all the time, but the frequency of pure and unadulterated anger is fairly small in my department. Still, this week my peace-keeping average took serious hits.

I arrived at work Monday morning and, by nine, three different student issues had emerged. Then another department's chair sent me a freak-out e-mail about a "recent and unannounced change" in course requirements. I later discovered the pertinent policies on the courses were put in place in 2002. After lunch one of my colleagues ripped me a new asshole over program development. I lost my cool. I have only lost my cool twice in my career.

I will leave the details of the scenarios vague for legal and personal reasons. They're really not the point, anyway. Cognitive dissonance, and how one grows to approach it better over time, is the point. I stand in front of students, week after week, and I tell them it's ok if they're insecure about their performance. I say that part of growth is going out in the darkness and getting accustomed to "not knowing". I reassure my students that they will, at different points in their careers, doubt themselves. They will be well served, I implore, if they develop a strong belief system on which they can rely when they hit the inevitable roadblocks.

I am an arrogant, full of shit pansy. When I encounter the same challenges about which I'm sermonizing, when my ego plays chicken with the outside world, I'm as scared and shaken as the next guy.

I know I've done the reading and mental preparation to put me in a place where I should be able to deal with tense scenarios relatively unscathed. I deal with these scenarios much better than I did even four or five years ago. There's no substitute for getting your feet in the fire, as an administrator, and, well, having people yell at you. You can't get accustomed to open hostility until you face it in the same way that you can't get past the intimidation of Randy Johnson's fastball until you get in the batter's box. Had I encountered a day like yesterday even a few years back, I would probably still be in bed with the lights off and the covers pulled over my head. A professor of mine once said, "If you can't handle everyone in the building hating you all at once, you probably shouldn't become an administrator." Not only do I agree with that statement, I've shared it in my classes many times. But, you know, I'm not sure if I will ever reach that point where someone is in my face, screaming, and I can remove myself and cooly defuse the scenario. Another professor once said, "Nobody, ten minutes after losing it, says, 'I'm really glad I lost my cool on that person'". I suppose some might be okay with a big issue emerging out of hiding, a clearing of the air through a screaming match, but I doubt the players come out overtly happy. Maybe I'm wrong.

How does the Dalai Lama stay so calm? Does he get yelled at a lot? Is the image of the calm hero in the face of the verbal storm sort of the white-collar version of a stoic gunslinger? Am I shooting for an ideal that doesn't exist? Is the image of the serene, magnetic leader an airbrushed centerfold?

Ultimately, do I have the balls and self-possession to hang tough through these incidents? I think I do. Circumstances may dictate otherwise. I believe you have to 1) be consistent, 2) act differently around different people. What the hell does that mean? I think my character has to stay consistent while I interact differently with different people. Obviously, I'm talking out of my ass again if I'm trying to sound like I have the nuances of human interaction nailed. I'm still working on figuring out what words to say and even with which people I should speak about what. There's an interesting tension in my department in that I believe some of my colleagues actually like it when I play the tough guy role. While some of my students and colleagues think I'm the universe's biggest asshole, others think I'm too easy on people. Try to work that one out in your head, people.

I'd like to blame blowouts and bad days on others' fears and insecurities. I'd like to think they attack me because they're afraid of change or insecure about something in their own lives. I'd like to spout off the cliches about the tough roads change agents face, etc., but none of those really help me in the middle of the night when I'm replaying the scripts of a verbal asshole-tearing over and over again in my head while I should be sleeping. I guess what I've learned from this scenario, and I can articulate better than in the past, is that, before I get to the point where I learn from these scenarios, I still have to feel the pain. Who said I wasn't going to feel that pain? I tell my students all the time they should expect the pain and stand tall through the long hours of self-doubt and flagellation.

I know I'm getting better at passing through cognitive dissonance because the "incident/recovery" window is shortening. In other words, I reached a basic recovery state from this incident in a day or so, whereas earlier in my career I would have needed a week. The day after a bad day is usually decent. I'll have to remind my students.

Where I Sleep and Why

Tonight I fell asleep in a small crevice, maybe three feet wide, between my oldest son's bed and his bedroom wall. I kicked a few books and action figures out of the space, put a pillow and blanket down on the carpet, and crashed. I felt like sleeping in his room, so I did.

I can sleep anywhere, and I often like to sleep in places other than my bed.

I'm not sure exactly why I've slept in so many places (sounds racy, but it's not), but, after some thought, I think I may be onto something. First, I tend to be somewhat isolative. I feel a magnetic safety when I crawl into a small, out of the way area. The coccoon-like tightness breeds an artificial solitude. I can trace this desire for isolation to my childhood. My brother and I shared a room where our beds were about three feet apart. I often, especially in the winter, gathered my blankets up and slept on the hardwood floor between our beds. There was nothing as comforting as the four or five blankets between the beds and your breath sneaking out, freezing, from underneath. In that house, you needed all the time to think you could gather, and the isolation of small spaces afforded me places where I could hide, reflect,and reaffirm my soul.

This attraction to sleep, and the ability to engage in it just about anywhere, spread beyond my bedroom. I slept over at my friend Joe's often in middle school. We'd drink stolen Southern Comfort and play AC/DC songs on guitar. I'd fall asleep anywhere at Joe's; my favorite spot was behind the bar, on the cold tile, but I was known to fall asleep in his garage as well. I always kept on my clothes, by the way. I wasn't changing to jammies in middle school. My potential embarassment was good training for my later life, and I'm known, now, to fall asleep with everything, including my shoes, still on.

In high school and college I was notorious for falling asleep at parties and somewhere, I'm sure, photographic proof exists. Some of my sleep was drug induced, of course, but facets of the previously established patterns persisted. I remember once I was strung out on LSD, after an expansive party, coming down from a decent trip at a friend's (but not close friend's) Chicago apartment. I found the room where the coats were stored, picked up the coats, threw them on the floor, and spread out on the bed. I then pulled the coats back on me into sort of a makeshift quilt. None of the partygoers seemed to mind.

I also developed a lovely and valuable ability to sleep at work. I've crashed in empty hospital rooms. I've slept in spare radio station studios. Add office floors, and, once, the area underneath an elementary school reading loft.

At home, now, I sleep in my bed, well, sometimes. I often end up in bed after a couple hours somewhere else. My wife is patient with the habit. I've explained it's nothing personal. She's beautiful and all that. However, in a house with three kids, I still find the need to steal a few moments when I can think alone. For example, I tend to crash on the couch, after reading, in the winter. In fall and summer I pull a futon onto the screened-in front porch. Man, I love sleeping on the porch. Late at night I can hear the neighborhood cats calling to each other and the rare passing car's whoosh. In the morning the birds start early, before dawn, and the eastern light trickles through the windows. If the air has cooled a bit, overnight, I've caught the covers around me and pulled my dog close for warmth.

I guess if I'm going to sleep so much while on this planet the acti's location should have some meaning. So be it. It's 4:24AM. Back to sleep. Wherever that may be.

In Praise Of James

My friend James is rapidly closing in on his forty-first birthday, I think, so this post will be devoted to all things James. I think I have most of the dates right, but, of course, memory is coloring my perceptions.

1) The first time we met, in the lobby of the radio station for which we both worked, James told me that he did a lot of crystal meth back in California. He mentioned this upon our first meeting, I presume, because he seemed a bit tense and jumpy. He was wearing a white dress shirt and scuzzy black pants. I was maybe twenty-one and still an undergrad. We were both marinating in the Chicago early nineties music scene. Most of the freaks and losers (of which I include myself) present grasped onto the radio station as a last chance at identity and community. None of us were particularly confident beyond our certainty on the words of the seventh song on the third Alien Sex Fiend album or whatever. The radio station was our hiding place and birthing room. We were fascinated by the Californian freak leaving near the Aragon with the shitty job who wanted to DJ and didn't have a problem divulging his drug history about, oh, thirty seconds after he walked down the station stairs. He didn't look scared of much. James upped the ante, walking in the door, his neural pathways pulsing through with crystal meth.

2) Fast-forward about twelve years. James is playing soccer in my backyard with my four year old son. My dog, Shadow, is threading between their legs, chasing the soccer ball. James gets way too excited (much more excited, it should be noted, than either the dog or my child, both of whom are pretty wired) and, when Shadow cuts too close, James twists his ankle and wipes out, screaming, on the lawn. He proceeds to laugh so hard I worry the neighbors will complain.

3) Rewind about ten years. James, in his famous Monticello apartment, is throwing a wild party. The chin-up bar has been torn from the wall, spraying shards of plaster everywhere, and the party has spilled onto the front lawn. For some reason I still cannot fathom, James grows furious with our friend Kevin because, apparently, Kevin calls James a "booby camel". James, stumbling drunk, chases Kevin up and down the street, back and forth through the three-flat yards. I'm convinced that, had James caught him, Kevin would be dead.

4) Fast-forward maybe five or six years. James's Belle Plaine apartment burns down. Two ferrets die in the fire. None of his friends have been close to this kind of thing before, so we take James out to breakfast and talk through options. James declares that he would like to cleanse himself by swimming across Lake Michigan that morning. The rest of us protest, fairly sure a group jaunt across Lake Michigan would be rather difficult (although, to be honest, none of us were entirely sure). He is eventually convinced to acquiesce to conventional wisdom, although he looks sorely disappointed at the prospect.

5) Fast forward perhaps five years. James joins the Lutheran church and writes the lyrics to an opera on the life of Martin Luther. At one point he wants the characters to sing and hold toilets in reference to Luther's documented bowel problems. At least that's why I think he wanted to include the toilets. The opera is performed once. One of my true great regrets in our friendship is my absence. I had already moved to Wisconsin. Still, as some of you may understand, joining a traditional church is rock hipster heresy. James didn't care. He joined, became a lector (often, I understand, giving biblical characters separate voices, like he was voicing a cartoon) , and wrote an opera about the church's founders. More power to him.

6) Rewind a couple years. James, at a book club meeting, goes completely apeshit when he is mildly chastized for showing up about an hour late to a discussion of "All The Pretty Horses". He stands up, screams, "I don't need this shit!", gathers his materials up in a dignified manner, and storms out the door. As he is leaving (wearing what looks like the same scuzzy black pants and white shirt from years before) he cuts an almost Dickens-esque figure, stomping through the Lincoln Avenue snow. The altercation is never mentioned again and the book club folds.

7) Fast forward a couple years. James drives across half the country to attend my wedding. He and the rest of my friends show up late and have to cut in front of my wife as she's preparing to walk down the aisle. Immediately after the ceremony, James tells me that my wife fell at least a few notches down the social scale by way of our marriage.

8) Fast forward maybe seven more years. James tries to teach my kids to dance to The Ramones in my living room. He hides fake dog poop on the floor to freak out the children, but they don't fall for it.

9) Go back a few years. James gets a job writing about wheat and beans for some company that tracks such measures. He learns enough about wheat and beans to talk about both subjects at length.

10) Fast foward to now. James considers quitting his job for an extended visit to California.

I think most of James' friends have lived, however vicariously, through his enthusiasm, integrity, and absolute unwillingness to live even the quietest moments with anything but intensity. Glad you're on the planet, James. Happy birthday.

Why I Don't Want Any Perky Women Bothering Me in the Old Folks' Home

Death has been on my mind lately. Three reasons:

1) I've been reading "Gilead", which I saw just won this year's Pulitzer. The book's about an aging preacher in Iowa looking back on his life.
2) The Pope died. Although he was in his eighties, he looked to me to be, oh, about four hundred.
3) I turned thirty-five. If you consider the average lifespan of the American male, I'm nearing middle age.

I should rephrase the first sentence to be more specific as to my intention. I haven't been thinking about death as much as what my life is going to be like when I'm old. You know, old enough to be in an old folks' home. Old enough to be unable to care for myself sufficiently. I'm more worried about old age then post-death existence.

So someday I might go to the old folks' home. Retirement community. Whatever. When I read the Wall Street Journal on Fridays, I notice the "Weekend" section (that might not be the formal name of the section, but you know what I mean) devotes pages upon pages of space to "Rich Old People Real Estate". Condos in Florida. Golf courses. Gated (er, walled) neighborhoods. Pictures of thin, healthy retirees wearing visors and sweatsuits during the day, suitjackets and long skirts at night. Dancing. I suppose these people aren't quite at the drooling, can't get out of the wheelchair stage. Good for them. If you want to read a decent caricature of this lifestyle, by the way, read Franzen's The Corrections.

In any case, I think I can bank, with some degree of accuracy, on a pretty high chance of ending up in an old folks' home. Medical care is improving. I don't smoke or drink that much, although I should probably lose twenty pounds to avoid the high-risk group on the vice end. Still, since I may live a while, I would like to declare, at age thirty-five, my requests concerning old age:

1) If my wife is gone, I do NOT want a goddamn roommate in the old folk's home. Leave me alone, for Christ's sake. If I want to socialize, I'll leave the room. The narrator in Gilead says that sometimes the best cure for loneliness is solitude. I get that.
2) I do NOT want some perky twenty-four year old bugging me to play bingo or square dance or any other inane bullshit. I like to think that, after living for seventy years or so, I will not cede my dignity to arts and crafts.
3) I need access to books. I understand that if I keep my mind in shape I can keep reading well after my body starts to break down (my body's already breaking down, as far as I'm concerned). If I lose a bit of memory, that's ok, because I'll get to read the same book twice, I figure, as if I've read it the first time. If I can't read, I want books on tape. If those aren't available, maybe Miss Perky can read to me. I hear Milton's daughters read to him. They even took his dictation, I think.
4) I don't expect to live with my kids. Of course I want to see them, but I'm not going to drag them down with my deterioration as long as I can help it. If they do want to take me out of the building, I humbly request that they not drag me around to Disneyworld or wherever in a wheelchair. I don't want to go to restaurants, either. Esp. after I'm shitting my pants.

I'm really kind of looking forward to getting old, as long, as I mentioned earlier, I can do it with dignity. All I ask is that the recreational staff at my future old folks home not assume that dragging me out of my room to watch grade school kids sing Christmas carols is Whats Best For Me. And keep me away from Disneyworld in the wheelchair. Thank you.

Haiku, Meditation, Yoga, Tea, and Why I Don't Have The Self-Discipline to Engage in Any of These Except Maybe for Tea and Haiku

I am sitting next to my oldest son as he draws a picture of what he describes a "sweet robot". My second son is tracing his Gambit action figure. We're on the front porch of our house in a small town just outside of Milwaukee. My youngest son is upstairs, getting a bath, because apparently he hasn't taken a crap since Tuesday.

When a four year old says, "Gambit", it sounds a heck of a lot like "Dammit".

My wife and kids were away for seven days. They returned from Florida, on a visit to my wife's mother, this afternoon. These trips tend to take place two to three times a year. The first two hours after I pick my family up from the airport are always difficult. When did the world get so loud? I spent the last week reading Murakami's Kafka on the Shore, breathing in humidified air, and walking my dog.

Now my middle son's Gambit has, according to him, a "big booty".

I'm glad they're home. However, their presence reminds me of my desire to find some balance and inner peace or whatever in a house where three children take great pleasure in beating the crap out of each other sixteen hours a day. While the kids were gone I had planned on meditating, etc., but I more or less blew the sort of self-discipline associated with the activities in this entry's title. I watched basketball and read Murakami instead. I know activities like yoga are supposed to make me feel better, and when I engage in their practice, sometimes they do actually make me feel better. But I hardly ever actually get around to, you know, writing haiku. I want to touch on each activity and outline my reasons (excuses, maybe) for my personal failures.

Haiku: Actually, I haven't failed yet at haiku. I've ordered some books from the inter-library loan system on haiku, and I may have a shot at haiku success. I like the focus and discipline of haiku. Plus, unlike all of the other activities, haiku leaves me an artifact of the experience beyond the ethereal. Haiku's been on my mind for about eight months. Last fall I wrote a few in department meetings, even though I'm the chair, and I wasn't entirely displeased with my efforts. Later, near Christmas, I checked out some websites put together by haiku enthusiasts, but I found that haiku enthusiasts (like, uh, most people who could be described as "enthusiasts") left me wanting to leave the party early, so to speak. More on haiku later.

Meditation: I haven't meditated for a few weeks. I've got no excuse. Normally, I can blame the kids, etc., since they get up so goddamn early, but they were gone this week, and I still didn't meditate. I don't last more than five minutes when I sit down on my yellow yoga mat. Don't get me wrong. It's a good five minutes. I peek at the clock, though. Something tells me the Dalai Lama doesn't peek at the clock during meditation. Maybe Heather Graham does. I don't know. Maybe I should try meditating at night. Worth a shot.

Yoga: I took a yoga class at the local YMCA and lasted five sessions. Allow me a few words in my defense. First, the class took place on Wednesday evenings from 8PM to 9PM in the dead of winter. So, after I stretched, warmed up, and got into a yoga state of mind, our Wisconsin February blew any progress straight out of the goddamn water. Plus, the yoga teacher, a thin, wispy graduate student with a crew cut and nervous eyes, was a sadist. We talked a little before class once, and he mentioned he was studying German literature. What kind of yoga teacher studies German literature? There is no rational defense for my concern except that I assumed my yoga teacher would at least choose a more politically correct academic program (women's studies?). I guess he was nice enough, but I couldn't keep up with him, and if I'm worried about keeping up with the yoga teacher, I'm sure as hell not relaxing or growing spiritually. He wanted us to contort our bodies in the most unnatural ways possible. I'm convinced he made up wacky new poses based on how stupid we looked. I read somewhere (Karen Armstrong's Spiral Staircase) that traditional yoga, the kind in which the Buddah engaged, was actually a physical motherf--ker. I can't imagine.

Tea: Tea, on the other hand, works pretty well in a Wisconsin February, esp. at work. I don't know what I'm going to do in the summer, though. I tend to drink soda for the kick, which is sort of like substituting mountain air for cigarettes. This past week I sat in the dark, drank some Zen tea (yes, I'm a sucker for good marketing) and listened to the Lost in Translation soundtrack. I slept well that night.

More later. I'll update my haiku progress as I go on. Maybe I won't die young. More on getting old later as well.

Randomanthony