It’s time for a…
Moiself sincerely hopes that y’all will have a modicum of amusement with these blog reruns from Fridays of August past, while I, along with MH and our offspring K and Belle, are enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime bit of family fun.
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The Yoga Pose I’m Not Practicing
( August 7, 2020 )
Department Of Even Yoga Teachers Need To Be Careful What They Ask For
Backstory: A couple of months ago, when we were all new to this streaming business, my 9 am yoga class teacher held a pre-class video chat for us streamers. She told us a “yoga joke,” then said that if anyone else knew any yoga jokes, she’d love to hear them.
Dateline: Monday; circa 9:30 am; doing a vinyasa (yoga) class via streaming. The regular teacher is on vacation. As the substitute yoga teacher leads the class into Triangle Pose, my mind wanders – which *not* the point of a yoga class, I realize…
“Bad yogi!” [1]
Ahem.
…my mind wanders to ponder the many different yoga pose names, both their English “nickname” and the Sanskrit names and translations, and as I do this, a joke begins to develop in moiself ‘s un-mindfulness-practicing mind. There are a few twisting yoga poses which are notorious for producing, in certain people, a certain bodily response – in fact, the Sanskrit name for one such pose translates as:
My joke is a play on the Sanskrit name for Triangle Pose, which is Trikonasa (TREE- kone-ah-sauna). I will ask my yoga teacher if there is a yoga pose known for inducing bladder leakage, and if so, would that pose be called, Trickle-asana?
My guess is that Trickleasana would look something like this.
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Department Of Extending The Metaphor
Yeah, hipster, since you obviously don’t care about trashing your own lungs, go right ahead and give no thought to trashing your small portion of the planet, which happens to be shared by everyone else. That’s the true American Spirit. [2]
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Actually, not. Not something *completely* different, that is.
Instead, a smooth segue into….
Department Of Smoke Gets In Your Eyes… And Nowhere Else, If You’re Lucky
MH and I have two fireplaces in our house. One has never been used; the other has been used once, not long after we moved in (~ 26 years ago), and never since. This is because of moiself’s killjoy spirit high livability standards.
I have been the family spoilsport when it comes to wood fires, be they fireplace fires or beach bonfires or campfires. When on vacation, burning wood is “permissible” only if necessary – e.g., if your accommodations have a wood-fire stove as the only heating source. You see, I am one of those annoying, I-can’t-pretend-to-not-know-something-once-I-know-it kinda people, and cannot justify sitting around a pollution source sans a more compelling reason than my personal entertainment.
And yes, I have fun, sitting-around-the-campfire memories from childhood. And yes, I have been pooh-poohed for my anti-wood fire attitude ( “Oh, c’mon, it’s not really that bad…” ). And yes, I am thanking someone else for doing the legwork on the It Really Is That Bad ® statistics I once knew but have forgotten and was too lazy to look up.
That info via Someone Else ® was provided in yesterday’s Ask Amy column, wherein Amy dealt with a woman’s am-I-right-to-be-disturbed-by-this question. This (nonsmoking) woman has been accused by her (non-smoking) husband’s “big smoker” sisters of over-reacting because of the woman’s concerns about the fact that when she and hubby go for “chats and s’mores” to the sisters’ place, the sisters toss their butts and partially smoked cigarettes into the fire pit:
“…since we don’t smell any cigarette smoke as the fire burns, (the sisters claim that) second-hand smoke isn’t an issue.
I feel this is second-hand smoke and a very real health concern.”
Amy lays it on the line (my emphases):
“Cigarettes aside, the backyard fire pit itself presents risks to lung health. According to the Environmental Protection Agency (epa.gov), ‘In addition to particle pollution, wood smoke contains several toxic harmful air pollutants, including: benzene, formaldehyde, acrolein, and polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs).’
Cigarette filters are made of cellulose acetate, which is a finely spun plastic (not cotton, as I had always assumed). Burning plastic sends off toxic fumes. The leftover tobacco on the spent cigarettes will also release ‘second-hand’ smoke.
So yes – this bonfire is basically a flaming pit of toxins.”
“The Scoutmaster says we’re only two requirements shy of earning our Flaming Pit of Toxins merit badges!”
Are you lost in the forest in the dead of winter? Ok; build a fire. You and your friends just wanna sit beside a pile of wood and watch it burn for…oh, that warm, glowy-feeling, or whatever? There are other ways to enjoy each other’s company that don’t involve needless production of toxic waste. How about playing charades, or that game where you find clever ways to trash your hypocritical friends who make you feel guilty about, say, things like polluting for your own pleasure?
Or how about this: re-purpose some old holiday lights, and if you put them on twinkly-mode you can pretend it’s flickering flames. Imagination is good for the body and spirit.
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Department Of Could The Editor Have Cut The Movie To Give You
All At Least Five Minutes Before Contradicting Yourselves?
Dateline: a week ago, this evening; watching The Go-Go’s documentary with MH. One of the Go-Gos was doing a voice over about the early 1980s Los Angeles punk scene (from whence the Go-Gos was spawned); specifically, about how accepting the punks were: it didn’t matter if you were gay or straight, white or black, male or female etc. you were welcomed for however you were/whatever you were.
This kumbaya declaration was made literally seconds before the band went on to recall how the other Go-Gos demanded that their new drummer, Gina Schock, an import to LA from Baltimore, undergo a makeover when she arrived – they cut and dyed her frizzy blonde hair to short and dark, to be more suitable to the punk scene.
Confession: the picture of Gina’s “Baltimore” hairstyle that flashed onscreen during that recollection…it *was* really, clownishy, wretched, even by 1980’s hair standards. [3] Open and accepting only goes so far; I guess even punk rockers have standards.
Yep; it was worse than this.
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Department Of Stopping Moiself In The Nick Of Time
Dateline: Tuesday, circa 7 am, walking north along the beach at Manzanita. There are few people on the misty beach. About 200 yards ahead of me I see three creatures walking south – a man, a woman, and their dog. The man and the woman each hold a large takeout coffee cup in their respective right hands. The dog, walking between the two, is looking up at the man. Dog pays the woman no attention; dog’s eyes stare up at the man.
As the trio gets closer I notice that the dog’s laser focus is on the man’s left arm, which the man has tightly clenched to his left side, and I get a glimpse of the halves of two brightly colored orbs the man is carrying between his upper arm and armpit/chest.
As our two groups (well, moiself is a group of one) we both do the polite, COVID-appropriate thing, moving to the side and smiling in acknowledgement and greeting. The woman says a few words to the dog, which gives no indication it has heard her – it never tears its gaze from the man and the toys he has “hidden” under his arm…and the woman sees that I have noticed this. As she gives me a What-am-chopped-liver? look and shrug of her shoulders, I stop myself at the last minute from pointing to the dog and to the man and saying to the man, “Oh, I get it – you’re the one with the balls!”
“In a just world, I’m the one with *all* the balls.”
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Pun For The Day
I can’t believe I got fired from the calendar factory – all I did was take a day off!
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May you enjoy the simple pleasure of wasting precious brain wattage
on composing a bad joke about your favorite form of exercise;
May you be the coveted one with the…uh…balls;
May we all hope that the nostalgia for pre-pandemic times does not presage
a return to 1980s hair;
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
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[1] No no no – not *that* kind. A yogi is anyone who practices yoga.
[2] Can you make out the cigarette carton brand? Do ya get it, huh? Huh? Huh? Huh?
[3] I can provide no still picture of that hair, from the documentary – I think it would have burned the camera lens to even attempt it.
