I've been listening to a lot of Level 42 lately, partly because Mark King is an incredible bass player AND has an unusual voice. It has character, depth because it's not perfect. Sure, the songs I've been listening to are from the late 80s, but they're interesting musically--it's obvious the band members knew what they were doing--have had some type of musical training--not like the synthesised crap you hear today with singers over singing every fucking note just to show they have range. It ain't range--it's called shouting. 


So, how does all of this relate to Bikram? In class today, the teacher mentioned how Bikram yoga tends to bring out all of your imperfections and there's nothing wrong with that. For some reason, Level 42's "Something About You" popped into my foggy, sweaty brain when he uttered those words, mainly these lyrics: 
But making mistakes
Is a part of life's imperfections
Born of the years
Is it so wrong
To be human after all...


Then, the rest of the song made its way through my mind during Standing Bow: 
Drawn into the stream
Of undefined illusion

Those diamond dreams

They can't disguise the truth... 

The truth that it's gonna take years to get my Bikram practice to a place where I'm no longer embarrassed to fall out of poses that I should be able to hold because of my freakish Gray family strength and years of being a springboard diver. Being a diver for so long gave me an incredible sense of balance and flexibility until I was diagnosed with vertigo about 20 years ago--even though by the time of the diagnoses, diving was no longer a part of my life. My balance hasn't been the same since, however, Bikram has returned it a lot of it back to me. The undefined illusion of Bikram is that no matter how old you are, or how rigid your life/body has become, you can be born again by partaking in Bikram. It's a tool for living, an added bonus for those who've discovered and relish in its benefits. 

Even the most seasoned Bikram folks have shitty days when their minds and bodies ain't cooperating. There's not much that can be done when that happens--just power through and not get down & out on yourself. 

Just remember what the song says: 

Gone, fragile but free

We remain tender together

If not so in love

It's not so wrong

We're only human after all...

Sorry about the crappy quality. 

Typhoid Yogini

There are a lot of proven claims about yoga with regards to health floating around. The main ones being it helps to improve breathing, flexibility, stamina, and balance. I've benefited greatly from Bikram--I can now maintain control of all four limbs for about 12 hours a day (up from two hours about five months ago) and then there's the whole awesome complexion thing. Also,  I had a conversation with a young woman recently who said that her six-day/week Bikram habit helped to fix her eyesight--she used to wear glasses--but not anymore. She didn't require glasses for her driver's license renewal test. Impressive.

Some even claim that Bikram can stop the cold or flu dead in its tracks. I'm an open-minded person, but I'm also a born skeptic, so this cure-the-common cold/flu claim doesn't quite work for me. So, when I was in class the other day with a young woman who had a box of Kleenex next to her, I knew something was amiss. When the deep, painful-sounding coughing started during Half-Moon, I started to get a scosch irritated. After all, we're in a very hot, carpeted room crowded with sweaty bodies engaged in deep breathing exercises. Germs are bound to fester longer than, say, outside. Sure, I felt bad for her--she was sick. It happens to everyone numerous times during one's life. We've all been there. I understand wanting to push through sickness because you have stuff to do, a life to live.

However, when your choices could possibly affect my health, that's when my empathy goes right out window. Showing up sick to Bikram is not the same as showing up to work sick (another pet peeve for another time) because one doesn't need to do Bikram in order to feed one's family or pay bills. Some folks could counter with the "you don't know where he/she is in the cold/flu cycle," or the "you just need be present in the hot room--that's your yoga practice if that's all you can do" Both arguments have their merits. But, when each cough sounds like you're about to lose a lung, and you're sporting a rheumy appearance with the hallow-looking eyes and gray complexion, you should've stayed in bed watching "Sanford & Son" reruns with a trough of steaming miso soup on the bedside table.

Sometimes I wonder about common courtesy--where did it go? Will it ever return?

As I ponder this, I wonder what it would be like to show up to class in intestinal distress.

Yeah, you know you're thinking the same thing.

Pimples & puke

I don't like it rough.

No, pervs, I'm not talking about sex. Duh. I'm talking about Bikram and today was particularly rough. I had a low-grade headache when I woke up and no amount of coffee, healthy food or water was going to put the kibosh on it. Even Tylenol couldn't touch it so I decided to experiment with the Bikram adage that it cures all that ails you.

Big mistake.

I could barely concentrate during the opening breathing exercise. My ass and thighs were squeezed tight like a frickin' snare drum and my spine was stretched to damn ceiling, but that didn't help. It just made me more achy. Half-Moon? Forget it. I felt like a scarecrow with a pole stuck up my ass. Lovely. Awkward Pose was, well, awkward. Sit back in the chair? Only if someone hands me a an actual chair to sit on AND a half-naked Cuban (man, not cigar) brings me a cold martini. The only two poses of the standing series I did a half-way decent job at were Standing Bow and Balancing Stick. Both looked a lot like the photos I posted--comes from having a strong back & legs--and squeezing the crap out of every muscle in my body to keep from falling on my face.

As for the floor series--forgettable. Being face down on sweaty mat forced me to go to my happy place, until we got to Camel Pose, that's when the urge to puke all over the room really hit me. As my eyes looked for the back wall, the bile started to rise in my throat and I had to force it down the way a kid forces down liver & onions for the first time. Gross. The rest of class flew by and I high-tailed it out of there without refunding all over the studio. 'Twas a good day in that respect.

However, that all changed when I got home. Let's just say it's a good thing my apartment is on the first floor AND that puke on hardwood is not necessarily a bad thing. That's what those disinfecting wipes are for--and open windows to help get rid of the smell. Today would be a whole lot different if I had some sort of carpeting. Puke on a shag carpet? I wanna puke thinking about how to clean it up.

Another nasty side effect of Bikram are pimples. For me, these are a mystery because I've been blessed with good skin--you know, clear, line-free with the occasional breakout. I feel for those folks who have to buy Proactiv by the trough-load because they have a mini-version of the Great Divide on their visages. But, here I am: Zit Central and it ain't pretty. Guess it's a good thing that unemployment is my lifestyle choice at the moment because I'd probably get arrested for being in public looking like this. Also, the fact that it's still too cold out to wear short sleeves, let's not even go there.

Stretch, Sweat & Tears

Over the past 24 hours, I did some healthy things: I showered. I ate healthy foods. I took my master's degree info off of my resume, and I've started to use my actual physical master's degree as scratch paper.

Oh, and I did Bikram today.

My mood has been in the toilet as of late due to my lack of employment and dismal financial state,  and I'm constantly amazed at how going to Bikram really brings those emotions to the surface. There must be something about all of that organ compression, bending, stretching and sweating that forces you to deeply feel all of the emotional shit you're going through. Bikram doesn't allow you to ignore anything that's going on with both your physical and mental self--it's cheap therapy. By the time you're done with class, you're too blissed out to give shit about your troubles for a few hours. Or you're too exhausted to care. With me, it's a combo platter of the two.

I held it together during the opening breathing exercise, but during this pose, the desire to scream my fool head off was overpowering. I tried to concentrate on falling back, go back, way back, but it was tough to do when all I could see was me in the stockade for defaulting on my student loans. The other images sloshing around in my noggin were of me, living in a VW van in a trailer park just outside of Mattoon, Illinois, making & selling sweaters made of out my cats' fur. As I wrapped my forearms around my calves in this part of the pose, I saw myself sleeping in the van in an old army-issue sleeping bag & a large bag of rice as a pillow. I had one cat snuggled up in one armpit and the other was on top of my head, you know, for warmth. The windows of the van were blacked out by numerous rejection emails I printed out for added entertainment and a constant reminder of my failings as a journalist. Seriously, what was I thinking when I considered this career? What a mah-roon! What a nin-cow-poop.

After this pose was finished and as I focused my gaze on one spot in the mirror, I gave myself the finger. Ahh ... self-loathing. There's a certain dignity to it.

The rest of the standing series was just super peachy keen and I'm constantly surprised how physically powerful I am--even with my sizable ass and advancing age. Huge strength. Amazing. At one point, I allowed myself to notice the other students and realized that my ass wasn't the largest in class. Seriously, it's the little victories like this which keep me from taking a dip in the Chicago River in a lead bathing suit.

Tears mixed with sweat in the eyes really bite. Hard. I felt like someone had lobbed some pepper into my hazels for shits and giggles. Pretty damn painful, folks. However, my face was planted into my mat so no one was the wiser. I just plowed through and tried like hell to get the images of me selling my collection of F. Murray Abraham thumbnail portraits out of my mind. I can't bring myself to do it--I just can't.

What am I gonna do now? Don't know. I really don't. The fact that I wasted all that time & money on a useless degree really sucks and I'm angry I did it. The bile in my throat is started to burn more because I don't see things getting better for me. I do know one thing though--I'm gonna keep going back to Bikram every day because it's the only thing that truly makes sense at the moment.

The world's largest virtual coffee klatsch

I'm doing it wrong--looking for a new job that is.

Apparently, the new ways to gain employment these days are to fiddle-fuck around on social media, mainly Twitter, and to have your own website. Twitter is the new networking group, the new gathering place for those who are unemployed. It works well on that level because you don't have to spend time and money getting all dolled-up only to sit at a bar drinking the house Chianti and chatting with some guy who knows a guy who's developing a 'neighborhoods with the most dog poop' app. Instead, it's possible to get an "in" with a prospective employer by hanging out on Twitter and retweeting their posts or just by stalking them in general. It's not a guarantee you'll get a job, mind you, but Twitter is a great way to bypass all of the usual bullshit that's associated with job hunting--mainly clueless HR departments. Even I have made some great business contacts on Twitter, but it wasn't done in a haphazard manner.

Now, I love Twitter. I see it as writing my own personal headline--in 140 characters or less. Also, it's the world's largest virtual coffee klatsch, if you will. It's fun to see what my followers are up to--well, some at least. There don't seem to be any rules and my fellow Tweeps just love to let it allll hang out--something I've been known to do from time to time. Twitter has shown to be a valuable news source during trying times--I didn't take my eyes off my Twitter feed during the Iranian uprising, healthcare reform, the mid-term elections, the assassination attempt of Gabby Giffords and, of course, Egypt. Twitter shows us the ugly side of humanity as well as the good. It is, in short, a wonderful tool.

But, I've heard of at least a half-dozen situations where someone has gotten a job by the act of virtual ass-kissing on Twitter. Retweeting a celebrity's bon mots is the most obvious form of the virtual and transparent suck-up. Or following a celeb and bugging them so much they follow you back just to get you to just shut yer yapper. What I have witnessed in my chosen field are those who have landed jobs with little or no experience but are deft at the social media game. And when you lack the actual skills of the job you're after, Twitter is a most valuable tool--you can reach millions with your observations and appropriately worded tweets guiding your fellow Tweeps back to your blog or website. This frightens me because there are those of out there who, while we like and rely on social media a great deal, believe that Twitter should not be the deciding factor on who is worthy of employment and who isn't. To be fair, however, I've never been good at self-promotion and while it may have hurt me professionally at times, I know full well that the jobs I've had in the past I landed because of my professional skills. Not via a self-important and in dire-need-of-an-editor blog or website. My hopes are, that once Twitter is seen as one of the many job/attention-gettin' tools, those who are worthy of recognition will get it through other avenues, not just through social media.

Which leads me to personal websites. A friend told me that I might need one in order to land a job because I'm losing jobs to folks who have websites. Sounds like a great idea, then I took a gander at a few of these personal websites and let's just say that having a damn fine gag reflex is a wonderful thing.

I'm losing jobs to these folks? Seriously? Yes I am, so now I need to get my head out of my ass and make up some sort of website for all of the world to see, heap praise on me (the critics will be silenced on my site thankyouverymuch) and hang on my every word. I have to get used to folks posting phrases like the dreaded and lazy "LOL!" and "OMG!" and "FTW!" Oh, uh ... there's that gag reflex again. Damn, it's starting to weaken. Time to deaden it with copious amounts of alcohol and constant reassurances of how amazingly brilliant I am from my fans in Iceland and Tasmania.

A website dedicated to how awesome the author is, well, it's a scosch much.

A modern day Biff Loman--with boobs

I've become a stereotype. I'm sitting in a Starbuck's up on Clark Street in Andersonville, writing on my MacBook Pro and sipping a tepid green tea chai latte thingy-no foam. The only thing I'm not doing is writing a screenplay, but I think writing a blog is in the screenplay-poseur category, however. The reason I'm here is because the Internets are out at mi casa and I really didn't feel like, you know, reading a book or watching the cats barf up technicolor hairballs all the live long day. Plus, I had cabin fever due to the frickin' blizzard that blew through Chicago over the past 48 hours. I can only watch the snow fall and my neighbors dig out their cars (really who are they kidding? BUT, they probably have cabin fever too) for so long before I want to encase the contents of my apartment in jello. I had to get out. It was that simple. 

So, I've been trying to figure out what the fuck to do with this blog. It's been weighing heavy on my mind because I've been told over and over by friends and acquaintances that I should be putting my wit and whatever out there, for all to see. The thing is, there are so many blogs out there and maybe 10 percent are worth reading. Out of that 10 percent, maybe 2 percent are worth reading on a daily basis. So many blogs are filled with the same old song and dance--politics, self-discovery, overtired & self-important mommy bloggers, observations, arts, arts criticism, snarky shit, etc. It goes on and on and they're all wonderful cures for insomnia. I'm gonna try like hell to not have a blog like any of those. I may dip into those subjects from time to time, but most of my posts will be random and hopefully interesting.

Like this one. A few weeks ago, my part-time job was eliminated at the magazine I'd been at for two years.  After the initial shock, which immediately turned to anger and has now morphed into depression, I'm trying to get through each day without getting sized for a straight-jacket. That's it. I'm not using any ancient secrets or meditation (which to me is just a sitting-up nap), I'm just letting it all work it's way through me like bad gas. You see, I firmly believe that when one experiences loss, whether it's death, a break-up or some sort of event that shakes one's core, one needs to feel bad. You just do and there's no magic pill to help one through it all (meth/heroin/X don't count). All of the anger, hurt and bad feelings have to be respected, and it's best to not attempt to quash those feelings because the inevitable is being delayed. I figure it's crappy outside, I don't want to be among the living, so why not go through all the anger and all the hurt in the comfort of my own home? Hell, I've got cable, access to Internet porn and a phone--which I rarely answer--but it's nice to know it's available to me when I feel a bout of black-wire fever coming on.

During this time, I've been getting lots of attention from my friends/family because of my job-free situation. Their attention is all wonderful and so welcome, but the best are some of the emails I've received--especially ones that are about job possibilities and what I should really be "doing with my life." 


Then, there are the emails that give me pause. Like this one. And, fyi, the name of the publication has been changed to protect ... well, whatever.


"FancyPants Journal, a weekly bidness mag for smart folks, is seeking a part-time intern for its big city, downtown newsroom. Responsibilities include managing editorial content on the magazine's two websites, FancyPantsJournal.com and KnickersAGoGo.com. Specifically, the position will assist in the posting of the magazine content, both text and graphics, on the two websites. Position may also do some basic writing, reporting and editing. The successful candidate must have an interest in all things fancy and smart, superior technical skills, familiarity with HTML, some copy editing experience or training, and a passion for fancy online journalism. Internship pays $XX/hour for so many hours a week and blah de blahhhh. The position would last for 3 months with the possibility of it being extended for another 3 or so months. FANCY! Send a cover letter, samples and whatnot to .. Mr. Schmenky McSchmenkman EIC, some big street in a big city. 


I got this announcement via a listserv I'm a member of and when it arrived, admittedly, it upset me. The body was still warm, my shadow was still lingering on the office door when this was posted. Granted, it's different from my job there--I worked 3 days/week, all day and did more editorial work. And, I was paid more, but not by much. 


It hurt to see and it made me realize that I meant nothing to this place for two years. 


While I was taking this all in and experiencing what a mini-stroke feels like, this email was forwarded to me by a former grad school chum--someone I haven't spoken with since we handed in our final stories.

"Hi Jules! I hear you have health care reporting experience. This would be the PERFECT JOB FOR YOU! Go for it! YOU CAN DO IT!" 


I sat staring at this email for a long time--reading it over & over--mouth agape and drooling like a mastiff. I read it again, squeezed my eyes shut tight, shook my head, opened them with the hope that it was a mirage, a cruel joke if you will. 


Nope. No such luck.


I looked out my window, shook my head and started to laugh uncontrollably. What else could I do? Laughing about this just made more sense! After all, it just proves that I'm the universe's court jester, a female Biff Loman, its sad sack and it's hilarious. It just proves that 2011 is turning out to be uber-turdelicious, but what can I really do about it? Nothing, except laugh it off. That's really all I have at this point and that's something, isn't it?

Ms. Chubby MacDoublechin crawls back to yoga ...Oct. 26, 2009

I've reached a point in my life where I just want to sit on my couch and either read, watch TV or tinker on the computer. The thought of being out among the living just doesn't have the same thrill as it did 20 years ago. And, in this day and age, being in crowded areas can kill you. Especially if more than half of that crowd doesn't understand the concept of using soap and hot water on their hands after using the loo. Or covering their mouths when they sneeze. Or chewing with their mouths closed. Or using their turn signals. Or realizing that skinny jeans don't look good on dudes and most women/girls.

Well, today I decided to stop the teeth gnashing, get back out among the living sans my hazmat suit and get back into Bikram. Over the past couple of months, I've been dealing with life, which is why I haven't been practicing. Like most folks do from time to time. The great thing about this return to sweatin' and stretchin' is that I now have a partner-in-crime: Ms. Rene Edde. Today was her first class and she "loved and hated it at the same time." Pretty much sums up all Bikram newbies' impressions for the first year or so.

It was a tough re-education this evening. I had nothing. No balance, no grace--nada, zip, zilch. Quite the pathetic sight. And at one point during Cobra Pose, I looked in the mirror and my hair was channeling the late-Johnny Ramone. Through all of the pain, sweat and stretchmark stretching I realized it's for a new 'do. Maybe this. Or this.

Also, never a good idea to do Bikram when one is gassy. That's all I'm sayin'...