WTF?

I'm a little late on this one, but in the name of truth and justice I must speak. A couple of weeks ago, The Ithaca Times wrote a full article on something called Laughter Yoga, which is a loose amalgam of simple yoga poses and fake laughing. Incredible, but true! Apparently there are over 6,000 social laughter yoga clubs around the world and the number is growing! Why, you ask? I have no fucking clue. Maybe it's just another phenomenon that confirms that the universe is indeed a mysterious place. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things, amidst all the other crazy shit in the world, some nutty fruitloop had lighted upon a good idea? I decided to try and open my mind... to crystals, past life regression, wheatgrass milkshakes, and even laughter yoga.

But here's the problem: try as I might to embrace the flaming stupidity of it, I just couldn't extract the image from my mind of a group of strangers contorting into the cat pose and forcing themselves to crack up.  I pictured them, gathered in one of those large open fitness rooms with walls of mirrors and swedish exercise balls and racks of chrome dumbbells, holding their bellies in mock theatrical laughter. My mind worked this scene over repeatedly, created abhorring figures such as Rolf, who smelled of raw garlic and wore a beret, a striped mime shirt, and a pencil-thin goatee. Frankly, just the thought of Rolf and his friends was disturbing to me. It was so disturbing to me that I was forced - in the name of science, mind you -  to go check out this laughter yoga bullshit. I would either prove myself wrong (year, right!) or at least confront the madness face to face.  

Here's what I found: Sanisatya, the lithe and attractive Certified Laughter Yoga Teacher, apparently was the leader of this particular fruitloop freakshow. But, aside from the Far East stage name, she did not look very freaky. On the contrary, she had silky raven hair, beautiful pale skin, and was clad in some very comfy velvet-pajama-looking-things. I wondered if they (the clothes) came in men's plus sizes? But what really got my attention were 

Sanisatya's bare feet, which were small, shapely, and lovely; I imagined them in a pair of Bella-Vita slingbacks coordinated with a long suede skirt and a plain white silk blouse. I began to lose focus. 

"Frank," the soft voice of Sanisatya called to me, bringing me back from our imaginary date (which had been going quite well in my head, I should add). "Frank, are you still with us?" 

"Yes," I said, somewhat startled. I think I blushed, such was my enchantment with the lovely-footed instructor-goddess Sanisatya. "I'm here, Your Highness. Ready to laugh!" 

She smiled benevolently and said, "Okay, class. I want you all to inhale as you bend over and touch your toes. On your way up, exhale and say HOO HOO HAA HAA. Repeat ten times, please." 

Everybody bent over obediently. The limber bastards touched their toes with ease and began to HOO and HAA. They did it easily, with grace and fluidity, which forced me to curse them under my breath. I watched them in disbelief and wondered if Sanisatya really expected me to do that. Was she blind? Did she not see the entirety of my fat ass? Did she not notice my pear-shaped body that had certainly not been designed to bend in half. And that's when it happened. That's when the damn of laughter burst within me and I truly grasped the insane genius of laughter yoga. It started with an idea: the idea of me, a two-hundred and eighty pound man clad in a pizza stained Gostbusters t-shirt, bending over and coming anywhere near to touching my toes. Now that was funny, and it started me laughing! The laughter fed on itself. I pictured it again only, as I bent and grunted, my pants split. And I farted. Just a small one, but the timing was perfect! This sent me into paroxysms of laughter. I laughed my ass off! But strangely, no one else was laughing. Why weren't they laughing? What the hell was going on? 

Everybody stood still, staring at me. Something weird was going on - even more weird than laughter yoga. It was like that time when I accidently ate one of my friend Andy's "special" brownies, thinking it was a regular brownie, and suddenly realized that I was the only one in the room experiencing a different reality. Why weren't they laughing? Why were they all looking at me with such sober expressions on their faces? But I couldn't stop laughing long enough to find out. I was in the middle of a laughing fit. I couldn't stop! My initial chuckles turned into deep belly laughs, which eventually turned into a wet hacking cough. And that's when their faces turned dark and malevolent. I had crossed an invisible line, broken the sacred code of laughter yoga. 

"Stop!" they shouted. 

"That's enough!" they wailed. 

"You're ruining it!" they whined. "That's bad laughter. You're laughing at us, not with us!" 

In between coughs I tried to remind them of their basic tenets: that there is no such thing as bad laughter ("All laughter is good laughter," they had said). But they weren't hearing any of it. They threw me out! The bastards tossed me out on the street and told me to never come back. 

So there you have it! Laughter Yoga, friends. 

WOMEN, MEN, SHOES

How soon do you have to be going with someone to buy her a pair of $300 leather boots? It's a serious question that I've never really come to terms with - like the one about how long do you wait after getting a woman's phone number to call. Too soon and you appear desperate; too long and you risk being perceived as aloof or even an asshole. It's a non-issue for me, really. I truly am desperate most of the time, so I think it's important to be honest and not misrepresent: I call that same night, usually on my way home! I figure if the woman gave me her actual number, she probably wants me to call. Why wait? Plus it prevents the whole "cold feet" syndrome.  

But boots - I'm afraid that's a different thing entirely. There's no denying that all women love nice footwear. They do! It's a fact. But where's the line between a thoughtful gift to show your feelings versus "going too far?" Is it the actual cost? As in $100 boring Danskos are okay, but Fluevogs at $250 are not? Or maybe it's the style of shoe. Certainly a pair of Guiseppe Zanotti pumps (at $774) screams of a deranged affluent pervert. Lord knows I'd like to see my lady-friend accompanying me to dinner in a pair of Zanottis, but I know it would come off all wrong. Her first thought would be, "Oh my god! Nice shoes! But how come if he can afford these he drives a scooter? What's wrong with this picture? Something's got to be wrong with this picture." But what about something really simple, like nice leather riding boots? That's got to be okay, right? I'm talking about a pair of Frye Veronicas, tall ones with a single buckle on the top: very casual, yet elegant, and maybe even a little rock and roll, depending on the clothes. Every woman NEEDS a pair of boots like that, right? And if my lady friend is lacking, then why in the hell can't I buy them for her? Hell, I need to see her in those boots. I mean, she really deserves to have them. That's definitely what I meant. 

Fuck it - I'm buying them. Wish me luck! 

UNITS OF TIME

I took a short trip with my new lady to a quiet little place in the far reaches of Western New York. Nothing there, really, but a couple of bar/restaurants, a single old-fashioned inn, and the ubiquitous Office Max/Home Depot/Walmart/Bed Bath & Beyond/Dollar Store pentaverate. "What the hell are we going to do," J. asked with concern in her voice. Perhaps the thought of spending two solid days alone with me invoked some fear. What - no distractions? We need distractions! 

But I eased her mind with a simple formula that has served me well for years. It's called UNITS OF TIME. UNITS OF TIME is a no-nonsense way to make sure you enjoy your vacation and leisure time. It goes like this: 1.5 hours of activity, followed by 1.5 hours of R&R. That's it! In technical terms, it's a fixed ratio of 1 unit of activity to 1 unit of relaxation. You could try other ratios, but mine is based on extensive field-research. I wouldn't fuck with it. 

An example: J. and I started our first unit of activity with a walk around the downtown section of this quaint little village. We went in a liquor store and picked out a nice bottle of Pinot. Then we stopped in a cafe for coffee and brownies. The brownies were great, but J. got burned on the coffee, which the proprietor talked her into. It was too experimental and had soy milk and some other unsuccessful ingredients. No matter, because a smoke in the parking lot of the inn nicely rounded out the first 1.5 hours of activity. It's important to note that you don't have to keep time or anything. After all, the whole point is to relax and enjoy. But I've been doing this for so long, I can usually hit the 1.5 hour mark within 2 or 3 minutes on either side. 

For the relaxation part, we checked into our suite, took showers, then watched t.v. Our room was really bizarre and had a separate t.v. room with a pull out sofa. We lounged on the pull out and watched a show. Then, we got ready for our next 1.5 hour unit of activity! In this case it turned about to be a short walk to a brewery where we had some decent ales along with burgers and fries. It proved to be a nice dinner. Back at the inn, we took baths, watched t.v., and became a little bit amorous. This blew the whole ratio because went over the 1.5 hour time limit, but it was getting late and we got back on track with a short drive to Tim Horton's, which has the best coffee in all of Western New York. J. had just finished reading Candy Girl, by Diablo Cody, and so we ate chocolate chip cookies and drank coffee while talking about the finer points of that excellent journalistic foray into the nether world of exotic dancing. 

And that's about it. Unit of time: check it out. It works!   

Bad Ithaca Vigilance

Is it me or is Ithaca insane with parking tickets? It's such a nowhere little 12 square mile place, and yet the meter readers patrol with the vigor of nickel and dime nazis. Do you hear me meter readers? You are nickel and dime nazis! Today, I parked by a meter and actually fed it 3 quarters (I rarely bother with this unpleasant task). And then I cut short my coffee date with a lovely lady in order to get back to the car and feed more coins, and BEHOLD! a minute or two after it expired, POOF! A ticket. Where did it come from? There was no meter reader in sight, and yet the time stamp on the ticket was not one minute old. Stealth nazi meter readers. Evil stealth nazi meter readers. Be gone! Bother me no more! 

Personality Test

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who freak out when they get pulled over by a cop, and those who get angry. And you never really know who is who... until the moment of truth. 

I am of the fear-based kind. No matter the circumstances, if I'm even near a cop I tremble. I worry. I second guess. Did I run a red light? Drive too fast? Or maybe one of my tail lights is out. I'm sorry, officer - is there a problem? 

I hate myself for it, but there it is. Cold hard fear. Now my new girlfriend is the other kind; she gets angry. I didn't know this nor even suspect. She's physically very petite and soft. So you can imagine my surprise when we got pulled over in her '68 VW Squareback and she lit into the cop with all kinds of attitude. She barked, "you'd better not tell me I was speeding, because this shitty car can't even go 55 miles an hour." The cop, obviously new, held his ground and explained how it was a school zone with a posted limit of 15 mph. "Well show me a damn child!" She countered. "I don't see any kids. It's like dark out! How can you have school when it's dark out? Tell me that! It's dangerous. Don't you think?" 

It was incredible. You sleep with someone 3 or 4 times and you think you know them! In all honesty, I admired her boldness even if it was a little crazy. But I get really freaked out around cops, so I found myself trying to pacify her. I think the poor guy wanted to let her off with a warning or something. Because as soon as I got her to lighten up, he said, "Miss, would you give me your word that you'll slow down from here on out?" I jabbed her with my elbow and mouthed the words to her. "Yes, officer," she said reluctantly. "Okay. Goodnight now." And that was it!