Good Restroom Bad Restroom

Restroom at work. I feel bad.



On the other hand, I went to a soccer game the other day and they had these trailers that were fancy restrooms. I mean, they were the most comfortable thing about the evening (Blistering hot day, and we had the worst seats in the place). I probably could have gotten beaten up for taking photographs in the men's room, but hey, I had to show you how awesome the place was. It smelled good, I could see my face in the polished granite.

Lab Technicians can suck

SO. Here is excuse #6. My technician.

Here's the story. I had been a little overworked (I told you), and eventually the dark circles under my eyes must've come to the attention of my boss. Either that or the many empty bottles of 7-hour energy drinks. (They are magic, I tell you. Magic.)

So he calls me in one day and says: "Hey Yogi, do you need some help?"

Yogi: Help? You mean a shrink?
Boss: No. Unless you think you need one. Do you?
Yogi: Uh.
Boss: You aren't going to come in and shoot the place up, are you?
Yogi: No.
Boss: You're fine then.
Yogi: Wha--?
Boss: So, do you need help? As in a technician?
Yogi: Yes. That and a raise would be nice.
Boss: Well, you can either get a tech and no raise, or no tech and no job.
Yogi: I'll take the tech.
Boss: Good.

(Yogi to himself: Hot young chick. Please, baby Jesus. Hot. Young. Chick.)

And then Boss introduces me to, um, we're going to call him Boris.

Boris is old. 60 years old.
Boris is morbidly obese.
Boris has never worked in a research environment.
Oh, also, Boris is an east European Jew who doesn't speak English.

I think I'm going to have a small series on Boris the Belarussian...

Winters make me fat

After the previous post regarding MLK, I probably should leave the rest of the day post-less just out of respect. But my body is hurting bad, so I thought I should just write about how badly out of shape I am.

See, yogi, as his name suggests, does yoga every once in a while. I also play when the weather is good. Which means that I o pretty much nothing when the weather gets a little chilly. I mean, pushups and pullups, all 8 of them (twice a week), probably help me not turn into Jabba the Hutt, but they don't do very much else in terms of keeping me actually fit.

This last fact was brought painfully into focus at the first Ultimate Frisbee game of the year this last Friday. I mean, everybody was rusty, so the quality of play sucked anyway, but, wow, I was in BAD shape. Here's how I could tell, as always, in list form:

1. I had my hands on my knees and was dry heaving FIVE MINUTES into the game.

2. They made me defend the weakest person on the team (happened to be a first-timer), and I still got beat consistently. And handily.

3. I subbed out four times, three times of which I got the distinct impression I was being nudged out.
3a. I didn't mind. I took it gladly.

4. The last game was to 5. I pleaded for it to be a game to 3.
4a. I was overjoyed when we got our asses handed to us. 5-1.

5. I can't move today.

I speak Russian. You speak Russian?

I was waiting for the train today, and there was this dude walking around in this weird way, somewhat agitated yet strangely trance-like. All he said over and over and over was:

I speak Russian. you speak Russian?

Except that
a. He had this thick Russian (surprise) accent, and
b. he didn't really stop to give any one a chance to answer.
He'd keep moving from person to person, look at them right in the face (as they tried hard to avoid eye contact) and would fire off his question. Apparently either no one knew Russian (I don't, which is a pity) or they were too weirded out by this dude, so all I heard until the train came was:

ayspikRAAshnYUspiRAAshn?ayspikRAAshnYUspiRAAshn?ayspikRAAshnYUspiRAAshn?ayspikRAAshnYUspiRAAshn?ayspikRAAshnYUspiRAAshn?ayspikRAAshnYUspiRAAshn?ayspikRAAshnYUspiRAAshn?ayspikRAAshnYUspiRAAshn?ayspikRAAshnYUspiRAAshn?

Crazy.

Women's aisles are Men's Kryptonite (well, they weaken yogi)

Just the other day I was told (gently of course. By a friend that cared) that the pores on my nose looked like craters. Fortunately, they make this nose strip thing for exactly this, and so I decided to go buy myself a nose strip from the local Target. Now, I must clarify that Yogi is by and large a very clean person and all that, but beauty products don't appear very high on his shopping list. And when they did make an occasional appearance, there was the obliging lady-friend who would take care of it. God bless these women. I mean, I'm sure they did it partly out of self-interest - no one wants to be seen with the Indian guy with meteorite craters on his nose. But still, that meant that beyond knowing that these nose strips were somewhere in the ladies aisle, I didn't know much else. And being single and all that, it meant that I had to wade into uncharted territory.

See, this is where men and women are different: women would have no problems going into the men's area. In fact, some of them insist on choosing our underwear (I think the pink ones with winnie the pooh are SO awesome honey; I think you'll look great in them); these women have no problems digging through piles of men's wear until they see something that they approve of us wearing.

We're a little different. First of all, I really don't care if you buy read or black underwear. Or pink or fuchsia or teal or indigo. Buy whatever makes you happy. Just don't drag me along. I start sweating when I'm surrounded by bras of various sizes and shapes; I feel like a giant perv, and the inquisitive/critical glances that I get from matronly woman who are trying on their giant beige undies make me feel all the more so.

This is also true for the cosmetic section. I will gladly admit, I am not one of those metrosexual types. I have never had a pedicure and never will. I stick to one set of body washes and one shampoo/conditioner combo thing. I know there are specific washes and lotions for various body parts, but really, I don't want to bust 17.99 just so the undersides of eyes look the exact same tone as my ears and smell of musky daffodils. Perhaps this makes me less attractive, but so be it. What that means is that I feel discombobulated in that area of the (already discombobulating) superstore.

So when I needed to cure the craters, I swallowed my unease and headed over to those aisles. Sure enough, by the time I reached, my stomach was already in knots. I flew by the aisle so quickly the first time that my eyeballs barely registered anything more than a pastely blur.

"Well, perhaps they just thought I was walking past on the way to another more appropriate aisle", I thought, and so I took a deep breath, swept back my wet hair, and gave it another go. This time I took the "I'm just perusing the aisle for something that my lady friend may need" approach. I walked slower this time, but then midway I made eye contact with a middle-aged overweight woman who was comparing hair removal creams. She had headmistress written all over her. I think I gave her an uneasy smile and she glared at me. I hightailed it out of there is two seconds flat.

But I wasn't going to give up, so I went up to the second floor, looked at some sports goods (to make sure the lady moved on, and also to surround myself with happy images of baseballs and cheap golf clubs), and then sauntered back down. This time I decided to give it the harried "man, I know what I'm looking for, but I only have three minutes, so I better focus and be quick" fly-by. This was more of a deliberate walk down the aisle, eyes focused on the various products, with more than the occasional shrug (as if to say I don't know whether this nose strip is for my skin-type) and the head shake (this Target is crazy - why don't they have my specific nose strip brand?).

No luck. Worse, the damn woman was still there, now looking at elbow cream or something.

So I went and finally looked for help. Turned out that there were three dudes emptying out shelves in the very next aisle. Great, I thought. Dudes who are comfortable with this shit. They can help me! And so I walked up to them and opened my dry mouth to ask them where this thing is, except I realized I didn't know what it was called (I know now, but I had forgotten then). I stuttered about for a bit - I think I came up with nose-hole medicine amongst other things - but then after some wild gesticulation they figured out what I needed. Except THEY DIDN'T KNOW WHERE THE HELL TO FIND IT EITHER OR WHAT IT LOOKED LIKE.

So it was myself and three equally embarrassed Target employees carefully strolling down the same aisle, carefully, in formation (lest we get separated from each other). This time we looked up and down with military precision. We weren't exactly sure what we were looking for but I vaguely remembered it was a small pastel green cardboard box, and we all agreed that it would have the words nose strip on it.

By this time, I was becoming a regular at that aisle. I was the regular perv who had no business there. I mean all the women had seen me before, and they all sighed and shook their heads before turning their attention back to their eye-lash elongators or nose-hair tweezers. Except this time I had come with reinforcements and so I felt better about the whole deal. I was Arnold Schwarzenegger in Predator. My three new friends however, not unlike the guys that get capped by the predator in the movie, were way worse off than me. In three seconds, their shirts were plastered to their back because of their perspiration. Their breathing was heavy and labored, and they didn't look above the bottom three shelves for fear of making eye contact with the ladies in the aisle.

I think one of them finally bumped into hair-removal lady and muttered an embarrassed apology. I think that finally did it. The woman turned to us and asked me: "CAN I HELP YOU, YOUNG MAN?" All four of us cowered. My brothers crept behind me and pointed in my direction wordlessly. This was exactly like 4th grade when all of us were in the cricket match where a window got broken, but it was me that actually did the breaking, a fact that was quickly pointed out when we got hauled to the Principal's office. I gulped.

"Uh, nose strip things. We were looking for them"

"Was that what you were looking for?"

"Yes, ma'am"

She turned around, took a pastel green cardboard box from her shopping cart and thrust it into my hand. "This is what you need. It was the last one they had."

I nearly hugged her in a teary embrace of relief and gratitude. An angel had descended that day and had touched me. I turned around and saw my comrades crying on each other's shoulders. The band of 4 brothers patted each other on the back and shook hands; we all had a story for our grandchildren, we said. We had survived.

And I ran out and kissed the oil-stained floor of the parking garage and wept.

Browning 12-gauge vs. yogi shoulder

Winner: Browning 12-guage. Barely. I know, I know, it's a sissy bruise, barely one at all. But if you've got good form, all you should've seen in the pic would be yogi's rippling and unblemished deltoids.

See, this is the problem when you go shooting with friends - everyone's talking, there are pretty women around, you want to impress them with your form, and then, just for the one round, you lose your focus just a bit and loosen up. And of course, since it's a 12-gauge, that means that when you fire, there's a skull-rattling recoil and your shoulder and cheekbone let you know for the next three hours that they were somewhat displeased by the turn of events.

But still, just because it's a matter of pride, I have to include a little factoid that you don't really need to know, but do now that I have told you - I still beat out the kids from Utah to win our little competition. Take that, Hansens.

4 days of drinking, 1 frog leg, and 1 sixteen-hour throw up session

Ah... Yogi turns older by a year today.

Celebrations with multiple friends' circles = mucho alcohol and food + being surrounded by good friends. It's nice to know a bunch of people like you and care about you. It's a soft and mushy feeling even for a hardened cynic like me. I just couldn't do five days straight (plus I had to go in for a solid 9-hour day of work today).

Bet you thought the chundering had something to do with the drinking. Wrong. It had all to do with frog legs.

See, last weekend, I agreed to go to a play on a whim, and decided to meet the rest of the group at a bar. I was under the impression that the "friend from work" that my friends were bringing was a dude. In retrospect, I have no idea why I would have had that impression, because my friends certainly didn't tell me their friend from work was a dude.

Because the friend from work was one cute asian chick.

Unfortunately, they were late getting to the bar (may have something to with the fact that it was three women. Just saying, just saying...) by which time I had already run through three beers and was on my fourth. So by this time I was already feeling pretty good about myself, and the world was pink and rosy, and this woman suddenly seemed very very cute. So I'm thinking "Yogi, this is awesome. You should go make an impression" and so I open with this:

"HEEEYYY. Burp. How goooes iiiit... I'm yogi."

- " uh... hey (polite handshake). I'm Gina."

"Oh Gina? You mean like VAGINA? Hahahahaaa..."

This was a mistake on multiple counts:
1. This was the first time I was meeting Gina. You do not attempt to rhyme people's names with body parts when you meet them for the first time.
2. Her name is pronounced Jeena. Vagina of course, does not rhyme with Jeena.
3. This was the immediate death of any chance I had with Gina. Or Vagina. or Geena's Vagina.

Of course, I did not know this, and I interpreted the frozen mask of horror on our mutual friends as a look of pride (at my awesome ability to break the ice) and merriment (at my stellar sense of humor). Still, given Gina's sudden glum silence, I thought I should make another attempt at bonding. So when we sat down to eat and got our food, I looked around and saw that Ms Gina had gotten herself frog legs. The legs were deep fried in some sort of tempura and came arranged in a circle around a little bowl with some asian hot sauce. (It was one of those somewhat fancy restaurants where they think itsy bits of grub artistically arranged fills your belly). Feeling somewhat emasculated by my own choice of green salad with tofu and raspberry vinaigrette, I decided to take Gina up when she offered me some frog leg (while not making eye contact). I thought this was Asian demureness at the time, which I found quite alluring.

But anyway, I ate one. It must have been a big frog because it had a big-ass leg. I think it tasted like chicken, but more amphibious. Anyway, I washed it down with more beer, and didn't think any more of it; we had a play to go see, and we needed to hurry.

The play was uneventful and so was most of the pitstop afterward. We were midway through another round of beer and chips when I got a sudden spasm in my midriff. "Ah, well, yogi, you're getting old", I thought to myself, and I stretched a bit. No problemo. I downed a bunch of water and then we left for the night.

The second spasm hit when I was peeing at home. "Hm. Come now, yogi. Surely, you didn't drink THAT much, did you? You must be a little dehydrated, plus all that sitting through the play..." but still, I didn't think much of it and went to sleep.

Well, it turns out that I have a checkpoint in my gut, around where the stomach gives way to the small intestine. I call it Checkpoint Charlie, like in Berlin. It's sort of like immigration check. Unsavory characters get held up for a bit, and then if you're brown and have a beard, you're in for an extra check, lubed up baton and all. And then if you happen to have crummy papers, you're out. You and your belongings do a U-turn and head back to wherever you came from.

So around 2 am the frog legs got a thumbs-down from Checkpoint Charlie. Which is when they packed their bags and trudged back up. But see, by then they had already dispersed out a lot and were swimming in a sea of beer, and because Checkpoint Charlie sends out bad guys bit by bit, it makes for a long drawn out process. This was when I started feeling really bad, and I was pretty sure what was coming. The thing about the process is
a. Once the U-turn is made, there's no stopping it
b. The exodus is forceful
c. It is also extremely thorough

So I parked myself near the toilet and let it start. And it did start. It was good. It was spectacular, even. I think I should spare you the details, but I was done by the end of it, which was midway through the next morning. Done. I couldn't move, my head was killing me, my body was killing me, my abs were killing me, I had a fever, but surprisingly, the bottom half of my GI tract was absolutely fine. It was like the West Germans that were milling around in Berlin and had just not noticed a bunch of East Germans being given the finger.

So yeah, even though I lost a solid five pounds and my abs look sculpted, it was less than a pleasant way to start the birthday week. Anyway that's the story I thought I should tell you on this beautiful day. Makes the second half of the week feel even better. It also adds one item to the (short) list of things I think I should avoid in the future.

Happy Birthday, me.

Funny Home Video - Hilarious FAIL by roommate

Aw, jeez... So you know the whole of the Northeast has been blanketed by snow. Well, we got a solid two and a half feet, and so a couple days back my roomies tried to go up to the roof and clean the snow off, just in case it caved in or something. Well, you know what's coming.

Slippery roof + Uncoordinated roommate = Unintended (but perfectly foreseeable) Hilarity. Glad I had the presence of mind to shoot. (ah, yogi's powers of intuition...)

Song Lyrics I got all wrong

I've been the butt of many, many jokes because of my complete inability to get song lyrics right - I just can't help it. And these aren't your 120 mile an hour RATM lyrics (which no one gets, come on now, be honest. "Since 1516 minds attacked and overseen"? Really?), these are lyrics that many others might get, but I just don't. I've thought about it, and I think that the cause is fourfold:
One, my hearing is bad;
two, my native tongue is not English;
three, I don't really care what they're crooning/yelling/grunting, and
four, it makes more sense with my lyrics. Some times.

But still all I plead is this: put yourself in my shoes with these handicaps, and then listen to these songs. You'll find that I wasn't that far off...

The marginal ones: There are always the marginal ones, like Penny Lane -Beatles; I always thought it was
"Penny Lane, within my ears and in my eyes..."
turns out it's
"Penny Lane, IS IN my ears and in my eyes..."
Big deal. Same idea. I know what you're saying, Lennon, but your crap Brit accent (and poor 60s recording) is throwing me off a bit.

The logical ones: Some of my lyrics were nonsensical in the context of the song, but made reasonable logical sense as independent phrases. Michael Jackson Man in the Mirror:
"... I'm asking him to change his ways/And no message could have been any clearer..."
became
"... and no Mustang was a Benz and a Clipper..."
I mean, why would a dude be comparing automobiles in the middle of a song I wouldn't know, but it is true that a Mustang is neither a Benz nor a Clipper.

The ones born out of ignorance: So you know how in the song With Teeth from the album of the same name, Trent Reznor goes
"Withthhe TEEEEEEETTHTHTHTH-UHHH..."
Well, if I had known that the name of the song was with teeth, I may have gotten what he was saying. But what with Trent stretching a two syllabic phrase to sound like it had seventeen, I thought he was saying
"To entertain LUUUUVVE..."
(This one almost got me beat up)

Confusion about message of the song: You know the song Weak and Powerless - Perfect Circle? Well, when Maynard sings
"Desperaaaaaate, and ravenous...
so weeeeeaaak and powerleesss...",
I thought it was more of a gung-ho pick-me-up song, and so, naturally, my brain sings
"Desperaaaaaate, and loneleyyyy.... (yes it DOES sound like lonely)
So weeeee can power thiiiissss..."
You know, like a "hey buddy, I know you're feeling low, but we can power this shit. Listen to my song and then go do it man!" See? Plain ol' confusion.

Top three for longevity. Plus for some reason I have a soft spot for these three that I completely messed up. Why, I don't know, but here they are:

3. Sad but true - Metallica. I thought it was "self control" for the longest time. I mean, if you're singing about how I'm your dreams mind astray, I'm your eyes when you're awake and all that, I thought you were defining my self control.

2. Living on a prayer: I thought it went "...take my hand and we'll make it elsewhere..." you know, because Bon Jovi always has a back-up option. Because he's from Jersey.

1. Clocks - ColdPlay. This one really messed me up, and continues to do so every time I hear it. You know how Chris Martin croons
"And noooothing else compaaaaarrresss...."?
I thought it was
"and Iiii feel a stomachaaaaaache..." (more like stumcaaaaake)
I swear. No kidding. Well, he did sound like he was having digestive difficulties, but still, I KNEW that wasn't what he was singing. I mean, ColdPlay just doesn't write shit like that. they're all about love and angst and women and stuff. But it totally got me.

So there it is - feel free to comment and let me know of your favorite lyrics that you butchered. Because really, I'm going to be waiting with bated breath.

Things I didn't do in 2009

Things I didn't do in 2009 (again, an egocentric list that I put together because I felt like it. And the mulled wine in my belly on this superbowl night makes me want to type). For no particular reason, the order is mostly reverse-chronological:

1. Didn't go to Turkey. Because my friends hate me and went without me.
2. Didn't go to Peru. Because the same friends also wimped out.
3. Didn't insist on going to a better cabin in upstate NY. Regretted that one, though it made for a good story.
4. Didn't cut back on the alcohol, coffee and hot sauce even though I knew hops, caffeine and habaneros give me the shits
5. Didn't go to South Africa, even though everything was already arranged.
6. Didn't murder my boss for having pulled the rug from under my feet re. SA trip. Came close though.
7. Didn't do as much endurance working out as I would have liked. This includes marathon sex sessions, which were non-existent in 2009, sadly.
8. Didn't help my friend when he wiped out badly in the middle of nowhere in a foreign country - laughed uproariously instead and cramped. Which I feel bad about now, but he did OK eventually.
9. Didn't move out, because I thought the vermin we caught in our crawl space in the summer was an isolated incident. This again turned out to be a mistaken assumption.
10. Didn't buy a house because the bankers are gigantic wankers. But I think I dodged a bullet on this one...
11. Didn't correct my barber when he thought I was a surgeon. He continues to think I am, so I hope he doesn't expect me work a miracle if his wife collapses at the shop.
12. Didn't call tattoo woman back. If you know the story, you know why. If you don't, it means I have a fragile ego. Just take my word for it.
13. Speaking of which, continued to have an abysmal track record of falling for unavailable women while ignoring perfectly fine single ones.
13. Didn't do my usual quota of NASCAR or NFL games. TV and living in the boonies took care of that.
14. Didn't get pubs even though I seemed to be working quite a bit.

Hm. That's about it - '09 was so quiet I didn't even feel that there was a bunch of stuff I missed out on. There you go. Here's a photo (taken in the basement of a building at work) that seems somewhat appropriate. I think it sums up my 2009.

Recap of 2009

So you're wondering why this post is a month late?

Or maybe you aren't. Either way. January came and went, and I didn't feel like it or was too busy, or couldn't be arsed. That's it. Besides, who really cares, honestly. So without any further ado, here's what 2009 was like - more than anythings else, just to remind me about what the hell happened. I'm getting old and what-not...

1. Ate a huge square pizza while getting drunk on new year's eve (OK that's '08, but it crept into '09, so it counts).
2. Froze my butt off to watch Obama take the (mangled) Oath of Office. All downhill since then, eh, O-man?
3. Learned to make peace with my roommate's girlfriend's neutered dog humping its stuffed pillow non-stop (still wondering why they do it).
4. Got REE-JECted by an awesome Brit chick. One of many such rejects in 2009.
5. My granddad died when I was on the back 9 somewhere in Pennsylvania. That hurt for a long time. He was a good man.
6. Ate pig tongue. About as tasty as it sounds.
7. Saw some kick-ass concerts (and saw a girl get ejected for kicking someone's ass)
8. Killed mice and rats in and around the house. This was a continuing theme for '09.
9. Learned (with some dismay) that my nieces were learning to play the clarinet and flute. Not as dismayed as their parents though, I suspect.
10. Almost bought some pottery on the way to Gettysburg.
11. Almost died from mosquito bites at Chincoteague.
12. Played too much mini golf. Didn't get any better. Or worse.
13. Hiked on exactly 0.2 miles of the Appalachian Trail.
14. Had to ask 60 year old mother to help me make a campfire. Both me and my dad failed spectacularly; she did just fine.
15. Faced an epic meltdown in Vegas over being late for a flight (we weren't).
16. Dodged lightning at Bryce. Immediately followed by dodging hail, while eating soggy chutney-and-bhujia sandwiches.
17. Bought a pull-up bar to fight the flab. Briefly considered changing the name of the blog to Pullupyogi.
18. Walked.
19. Got the shits (bad) somewhere in the middle of the Solent. Learned that toilet splashback is a real risk when sailing in choppy waters on a challenger class yacht.
20. Held up an international flight on account of being late. Again.
21. Dressed like a 1920's newsboy and rode around DC in my Bianchi. Got featured in the local paper for my pains.
22. Dressed up as an R-rated fictional super-hero. People with a sense of humor were impressed. The rest can go screw themselves.
23. Got stuck in a ratty cabin in Upstate NY where nothing (fridge, oven, lights, toilet, heater) worked. Loads of alcohol helped soothe the pain.
24. Broke my lower control arm on a highway in rural PA in front of a 7-11. Helpful Indian (of course) shop owner helped sort out the mess.
25. Laughed uncontrollably when my friend wrecked his scooter in Nassau. Became probably the first idiot ever to ask for directions to the water when on an island.
26. Ate the most delicious mango this side of the Atlantic in a shed on the way to the Everglades. Stared down an alligator and ran like a girl when it moved.
27. Decided that East Coast road trip was less fun than West Coast road trip. Maybe traveling with cousin instead of lady friend had something to do with it.
28. Worked quite a bit.

Yep, that was about it. Overall, I'd say it was a quiet year. But thanks to a lot of really awesome people who I crossed paths with, it made it all good. I've shared lots of little stories with family and friends that made my life in '09, and continue to make my life in '10, truly happy.

When your Lower Control Arm snaps...

... when you're driving on a highway, it isn't a good thing. So for those of you who don't know, the lower control arm in your car is basically the thing that connects your wheel to your car frame, axle and steering link, so that the weight is held up by the frame, while the the steering wheel and the axle control turning and thrust. All in all, an important part of the car, unlike, say, the temperature control on the passenger side seat, or the light that turns on when you flip down the mirror in the sun visor...

So here is how a lower control arm should look:

And this is how my lower control arm looked at the local AAMCO in bumfuck Pennsylvania.

See that giant crack? Yeah, that happened to me when I was driving in PA in the middle of nowhere, at 50 mph or so. When your front passenger side just crumples, you know you're in trouble. Fortunately, yogi is endowed with pretty good driving skills, so apart from the slightly soiled pants, nothing else was damaged. Another stroke of luck: the car gave out right in front of a 7-11/gas station. Hello Indian people... (the dude was from Punjab, and was cool enough to let me abandon the car there - the tow truck didn't show until two days later).

It cost me a solid 800 bucks (a bit more) and a week to replace the control arm and the axle (bent out of shape), plus labor and towing. But on the other hand, I'm alive, so it's good. Phew.

Skinny Puppy at DC

I was just looking at some of my cell phone pics when I saw a couple that took a second to register. And then of course I remembered the concert. It's the one where the six foot tall Jewish girl (not counting her 6 inch platforms) that me and my buddies had gone with got thrown out for punching a somewhat overenthusiastic fan in the face. (The guy's dancing got somewhat muted after this incident. I also saw him get some ice from the bartender afterward, so I guess there was some shoulder behind that punch).

Anyway, if you think you're seeing a dude swathed in bloody bandages and wearing a dunce cap, you would be correct. That's Nivek Ogre, the frontman for Skinny Puppy - an awesome industrial band that you should really listen to. if you think their old stuff is a bit much to stomach, their sound has gotten more refined these past few years. But there's no mistaking who they are. Their music is fantastic, and their shows are even better. The guy showed up in a walker, mask, and bloody costume, which he then peeled off in layers as the night went on.


Oh, midway through, the dunce cap started smoking. And there was (fake) blood sprayed on stage. Certain to give the fainthearted some serious nightmares. In other words, fucking awesome.

But in the middle of all this, I do have one small request for people wanting to mosh. If you are a fat ass weighing in at more than, oh I don't know, a buck eighty, take it easy on the Indian dude who's there for the music, will you? Especially if you have long dirty blond dreads that whip around in three foot arcs (at eye-level on a crowded floor. Deadly), and if you are the sweaty type that wears no-sleeve tees (to an industrial concert on a cold November evening). Thanks.

DC Tweed Ride photos

Finally, a chance to upload some photos that don't really do justice to what was a really awesome event. There's this peculiar little group called Dandies and Quaintrelles that decided that this fall would be a great time to go out and reclaim the streets of downtown DC for bicyclists. When wearing our best tweed, of course. Because that's how we roll.

The event was called the DC Tweed Ride, and a solid 500 people (at the every least, I should think) showed up on what was a beautiful fall morning. Yogi is not quite a morning person, especially in the absence of caffeine, but still I showed up to see this:

Yep. Absolute mayhem in some alley chock-full of nattily dressed DC locals in tweed, somewhere in Northeast DC.

There were accessories too. Pipes -

Moustaches (some fake, some real)

And a couple Penny Farthings. Awesome.


We took DC by storm. Well, we biked through a bunch of lights and used up all the lanes, which made us feel invincible (not bad for a couple hours a year). We doffed our hats often, waved our parasols, and there was a bunch of "Hellooo there"s and "Good Morning to you Sir"s and "Hip Hip Hoorah"s being dished out by the riders to somewhat dazed onlookers, who fell neatly into one of three categories:

1. What the fuck. Get out of my way, assholes. (These, to DC's credit, were few and far between)
2. Aw, sweet. Antique bikes and Tweed! And doesn't that Indian dude look cute. Clap, clap, and/or honk honk.
3. Man, what the fuck did that dude/chick slip in my drink last night...

But we rode on, undeterred.



We stopped over at the white house. The big man wasn't in, unfortunately... Schmoozing with the Chinese so we can still live happy debt-ridden lives, apparently.

And since no event is quite complete without a bunch of beer to wet parched throats (warm day + physical activity + tweed? Phew!) we went and got plastered at a local bar. I thought Marvin's looked like a speakeasy packed with one hell of a good-looking crowd that day... Good times.

Also, for photos that don't suck, and for English that's a lot cleaner, you really should check this link.

Halloween this year...

... was a repeat from way back. Cheating. But fun. Yogi is nothing if he isn't classy.


Worried you might get let down on that important date???
Scared that your mojo might go AWOL in times of need???
HAVE NO FEAR, BONERMAN IS HERE!!!


Boner Man's Power Belt had Viagra and ExtenZe (fake packs. Of course.), K-Y, 5-hour energy drinks, something I bought from Target that was battery driven and guaranteed "20 minutes of quivering pleasure. Batteries not included" (no I don't know what it was; I gifted it to my roommates lady friend) and, as a last resort clearly, a wrist exerciser.

Great reception for the costume, absolutely shredded inner thighs because of walking with the prop. Yes it's a prop. No, there is no subliminal psychological compensatory thinking here.

Best Halloween Invitation EVER

HeyYogi,

I just sent you an evite for Halloween. Please don’t feel pressured to come by – you won’t know too many people, and I know you have plans that night – but I figured if you want to stop by before you head up it would be fun to see you and your costume (if you’re putting it on before you drive up). If not, no worries! Hope you’re doing well!

Gotta love it.

Iceland Air - my personal saga

So last week's little trans-Atlantic trip reminded me of a very different, but almost equally memorable trip that I made when I was a bit younger; the background is that I'm this young, broke student, and I'm trying to visit this lady-friend of mine back in England. The whole romantic affair was a waste of time, but the actual flight there turned out to be rather eventful. Here's an email I shot off after I got back, with some edits (the writing was horrendously tacky - I was a young and jilted lover who had just had a bad flight experience...)

With all the money I had made, the only airline I could afford was Iceland-air. Now if there's one thing I learned after this trip (and you should learn after reading this), it's never to fly Iceland-air. First of all, they buy all their 737s second-hand from Ryanair (which buys all their aircraft from the worn-out Ghana-air fleet, which in turn buys Kyrghyz-air rejects, which are basically the planes that the pilots of Air India have reduced to wrecks after 20 years of semi-drunk flying). So we get into this shell of a plane which looks like its just been in a demolition derby and spray painted by Andy Warhol off his meds. The insides are worse - bad karma all around. It looks (and smells) like the last trip involved horses, alcohol, frayed tempers and many, many upset stomachs. I say so to the old lady who sits to my left; she nods somewhat dreamily; I look to my right, and there's this cute thing (the one bright spot in the trip) that sits next to me, and we look at each other nervously as the plane shudders down the runway and eventually decides to heave itself into the air inches before we all get dumped into Chesapeake bay.

I look at the in-flight mag. Eidur Gudjohnssen is the first Icelander to play footie in England. You get good fish in Iceland. Icelandic water is clean. Icelanders bathe in open air pools and hot streams. Iceland has good fish. Icelandic water is healthy. Eidur Gudjohnssen has a wart on his left toe. Hm.

I turn talk to the babe, but the old woman on my left gets to me first; turns out she's on her way to meet her girl-friend. I make the mistake of looking at her quizzically, because she enthusiastically tells me that they indeed are dating. I also learn in quick succession, that
a. she was married,
b. her husband beat her every night,
c. she had kids (many),
d. her husband beat her every night,
e. her many kids had kids,
f. her husband beat her every night,
g. she eloped with her grandkid's governess.
Also jokingly, she adds that septuagenarian lesbians are, sadly, hard to come by. I laugh uneasily, and decide the only way to shut out the visual images that keep popping up in my head is to focus on the in-flight magazine (the TV closest to me was 12" across and a good 20 feet away, and they were showing Icelandic 70s pop). The two women on either side of me continue to have a spirited conversation about woman power.


Before long (I had time to read about Eidur Gudjohnssen's up-to-date love life twice over) we reach some stable altitude and wobble there. This is when Icelandic airhostesses appear with food. Each one of these ladies look like they can smother Hulk Hogan between their ample bicep and forearm fat pads. And they wear lipstick like it's been painted on by a 12" brush. As I quiver in fright as their body looms in front blocking all cabin light, they ask "VOT DO YOU VANT" in a decidedly you-better-tell-me-quick-you-dipshit-i-need-to-go-put-my-lipstick-on-again kind of
tone. So I ask for the pasta and get some glop that looks like its left over from the last ice age. Plus it has bits of what looks suspiciously like walrus meat, but I don't want to antagonize my friendly Icelandic airhostess. So I let Ms Hagar go bleach her bushy mustache and apply more green/orange eyeshadow, and I swallow the glop (carefully avoiding the meat - it has bristles on it that look just like walrus whiskers. I'm sure it was walrus meat). Fortunately they follow it up with alcohol (aqvavit - Iceland's national drink. Of course). I decide I need a stiff one, so does Etta (the pretty thing - we were close pals by then). So we down a couple, and then the ageing beast (the plane, not the airhostess) decides to do an all out death dance in the middle of the atlantic. Lights go out, alarms go off (REALLY loud sirens), and we all panic a bit. I decide to cash in, and turn towards Etta to comfort her, but glop + aqvavit was too much for her delicate tummy. She turns green, and before I can whip out the barf bag, she shoots out projectiles of half eaten walrus meat (though her nose too, I swear I saw it) all over a radius of six feet.

I turn green now, and turn away (hey, there's only so much I can do ok? besides I had a girlfriend back then - or so I thought - and judging from this babe's pro-lesbian tilt, I could be heading for a big letdown). Meanwhile Ms Hagar comes around, yells in Icelandic to her minions (I could see a vein throb in her temple); they wipe up the mess hurriedly and squirt some airfreshner that smells like a horses backside pretty much in our faces. As I clear my throat to let out a whimper of protest I get the eye from the lady, so I swallow the rising bile and shut up. It suddenly dawns on me about how it all makes sense. The horseshit, the vomit and the bad karma; it all fitted in... Feeling enlightened, I fall into dreamless sleep for about 30 seconds when the bloody sirens go off again. We're landing this time.

We land in Iceland (its quite brown and barren) on a rutted landing strip, we all shuffle into a lounge as big as my uncle's bathroom. exactly 17 minutes later (I understand that this is the minimum time gap between 2 legs of a flight in the same carrier) we shuffle out of the lounge and back into our seats. They shuffle seats though, so this time I get empty seats on either side. They shuffle airhostesses too, so this time I get a brunette Ms Hagar. But I've had enough of all this shuffling, and my enlightened mood manages to linger on so I just squeeze my eyes shut and dream of anatomically inaccurate viking babes till we get to Heathrow...

Top Ten List -Sailing trip

No, this isn't one of those informative Top Ten lists; just a few things I feel compelled to write about. Sailing in the Solent was freaking awesome, so why not round it off with some blather. It's more like a list of highlights. Whatever.

10. Top one liner of the trip (from Paul, the skipper, upon sighting a somewhat less than ravishingly beautiful lady at the marina): "You know, I understand all women have the right to ugliness, but really, some of them do abuse the privilege."

9. Top Medicine I took along: No, not Stugeron for sea-sickness (well, maybe if you have a really quick gag reflex it might be what you need). Pepto Bismol. Two days of rice and beans + lots of milk in my many cups of tea = case of shits at sea. It could have been very very unpleasant, except for Pepto, which made it only marginally unpleasant.

8. Top accessory that was of no use: Waterproof Silicone ear plugs. The wind and water on deck wasn't crazy, so I didn't need it for that. However, I had to break them out at night, but to no avail. Turns out Silicone ear plugs are no match for pushupdad's window-rattling, tide-turning, eardrum-tearing snoring.

7. Top icky moment: During a somewhat choppy run, I had to go below deck to empty a kidney (see what those endless cups of tea do to you?), and I was told not to be a hero, but sit and pee instead. Not willing to clean up urine from the floor and possibly walls, I sat. Except we turned tack and simultaneously hit a giant wave, and the contents of the toilet bowl (fortunately devoid of any input from yogi) went WHOOSH, right up my ass-crack. We didn't hit a shower until two days later.

6. Top Unfortunate Visual: Speaking of ass-cracks, the skipper has THE hairiest I have had the misfortune of having to inadvertently lay my eyes on. Being the skipper, he was also the plumber on the boat, and he wore his pants low. Bad combination. Great guy otherwise.

5. Top Limerick (from a watch mate):
"There was a lady who begat
Three kids - Pat, Matt, and Tat,
The fun was in making 'em,
Not so much in nursing 'em -
There was no tit for Tat."

4. Top new skill: Tying knots. I had a phobia of knots (I knew the reef knot, and that was it. I have never been able to tie anything in my life. Honest); that has now been downgraded to just a deep ineptitude at tying knots. I still completely screw stuff up - it took me 4 days to get the most basic of them, the clove hitch - but at least now I know how to tie a few knots with fancy names: The double clove hitch, the bowline, the sheepshank... which I will now proceed to forget, I'm sure

3. Top reason to hate technology: A guy in my cabin had his iPhone alarm go off at 4:00 am, and then at 4:10, and then at 4:20... I had to hit him each time to wake him up because he could sleep right through it, and he'd hit snooze instead of off, and it would go off again. After a rough day's physical work and pushupdad's thunderous snoring, it was enough to make me want to throw it overboard.

2. Top reason to go back ashore: The beer. The food's alright, but the beer... mmh. Of course, too much beer will give you a case of the shits at sea, but as long as you have pepto, you'll be fine. As far as the whole prostitutes at ports theory goes, I didn't see any. Maybe they were there but just avoided the Indian guy chugging beer like a maniac. Maybe it's just a thing of the past. Or I don't know where to look. Either way, I didn't get acquainted with any, Oh and also, you get to eat desserts with names like Spotted Dick. Presumably named after what you get if you do get acquainted with prostitutes at ports.

1. Top reason to do all this is the first place: Because you can. It's that simple. If you can, do it. The Solent is beautiful, the Isle of Wight is beautiful, but even if you don't get to go all the way there, sail somewhere else. If you want to have an ocean adventure, don't go on a cruise and sit on a deck chair to get a tan, go sail to wherever you want to go. It is truly enjoyable (even if it's hard work), and time, energy and money well spent.

Back from Sailing in the Solent

Yep, that's why there wasn't much writing - I was on a sailboat with pushupmom and pushupdad. Good times. Yes, yes, more detailed post coming up, as soon as I get over some serious jet-lag...


At the Needles, at the very western tip of the Isle of Wight.


Anchored at Alum Bay, on a very quiet day.


Sailing at daybreak, heading back towards Portsmouth


At the bow of Sarah. The waters of the Solent lie below.

Interpretive dancing at the Shakespeare Theater

So I reconnected with a long-lost cousin this past weekend (yes, yes, I know, all of us Indians are related and we only have two degrees of separation as opposed to six for white people). Anyways, she decided that we should go check out some interpretive dance show at the Shakespeare Theater. I'm always up for stuff like this, so I said yes. And then realized that I had double-booked my Saturday (again). I had a football (soccer) game to watch at the stadium. So I went with my buddy to watch my team - the absolutely hapless DC United get thrashed again - this time the most awesome play they managed was when Benny Olson was fouled hard, and as the ref was handing out a yellow card to the offending player, good old Benny decides to kick the ball in the players face, earning him an immediate (an absolutely well deserved) red card, which means automatic ejection. This got us all happy, but of course, with a man disadvantage, we got our asses handed to us. This manner of losing is seemingly constant in all United games.

So I'd been jumping up and down and yelling with the group for three hours, and I realized I had precious little time to get back to the theater, so I rushed back after chugging my ($7.50!!!) Harp. I made it in time, but not soon enough, so I found that while my cousin got herself awesome orchestra tickets, I was stuck in the nose-bleeds. Which was fine, or so I thought, because I could blend in with the riff-raff.

Turns out no one who goes to see interpretive dance on a Saturday night is riff-raff. The women are all dressed like ostriches that have dived into fruit bowls and then ran through a GAP store to pick up mannequins for dates. I mean, I showed up in my soccer jersey, all out of breath and sweaty and beery, and I was huffing and puffing and I ran into this foyer, and then I saw the people. As I was processing the sight of thousand-dollar outfits and swept back hair and cuff links, they caught wind of an admittedly semi-drunk yogi. Champagne flutes stopped mid-clink, gloved hands went to grasp throats, cowlicks went unswept-back, there was a collective gasp, and things generally came to a somewhat shuddering and unceremonious halt.

I made the best I could of the situation, gave a cheerful wave, pointed to my jersey, and said something about United sucking. My cousin, bless her heart, stepped up and ushered my to a corner and gave me the ticket she had bought for me. Most people went back to what they were doing, and so I kept a low profile, and went in to see the show (which started a good half hour late). There are a bunch of things that I would like to point out about the whole getup, now that I've had the time to think about it:

1. The seats have as much space as economy seats on a Southwest flight from DC to NYC. If you are anything more than waif-like, you better get used to your neighbors elbow in your groin and your knees blocking the bottom half of your vision.

2. They rise really steeply, so I hope you don't suffer from vertigo. If you do get waves of vertigo induced nausea, fortunately you can bite into your knee caps (they're right there, hovering below your chin), which helps.

3. Funny people show up for shows. The lady sitting in front of me was blind. I don't know maybe she was listening to the footfalls during the interpretive dance show. She sure looked like she was having a swell time. There was also this dude who was given to moderately loud flatulence. I mean, they weren't thunderous, but they were noticeable, especially because they kept coming in fits and starts (he must have been trying to hold it in). No, fortunately, no bite. Only bark.

4. The dance part of the show was a let-down. They made a big deal about how it was all "late-night" and "18 and above", and so I was expecting some serious avant-garde shit, you know, like naked women (yeah...). So when they announced the first piece and say that "people will be dancing in the flesh" (I'm not making that up), I was thinking "Oh god, please no naked fat men. Please, make them hot women." I wanted to see me some boobies.

And then out walked these three girls (so far so good) dressed in gowns (positive development - they're easy to take off), and they executed some writhing moves on stage. I was starting to get a little impatient, but then they stared disrobing. I think everyone sat up a little straighter (riff-raff or hoity-toity, we're all the same), and then the robes came off to reveal....

...
...
...

SKIN COLORED TIGHTS.

SKIN. COLORED. TIGHTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There was a palpable sense of dismay that swept through the seats. I mean, what the fuck. You've GOT to be kidding me. Come ON Shakespeare. If you're making me pay to see some bullshit interpretive dance, and then you get me all tingly and excited by telling me there are going to be naked people, then GIVE ME NAKED PEOPLE!!!! I am not here to see some bullshit dance moves by people who weren't good enough to make it into a real dance troupe to some bullshit music mixed by some jock who was too unhip to mix at the local club. You know what I interpreted it as? Fully clothed people who had forgotten their latest dose of phenobarbital. You know, I really like artsy stuff. I do. But I want people to be honest. If its going to be people in tights, tell me its going to be people in tights. Also, if it's going to be interpretive, don't make us do ALL the interpreting, OK? Give us a hint here or there. Some skinny dude prancing around the stage in his pajamas is exactly that - a skinny dude prancing around the stage in his pajamas. The people were obviously in great shape and had decent talent and training, why not put them to better use?

5. The stuff in between the pieces was pretty good. Awesome poetry, very funny (and really sexually charged. The lady next to me kept going "Oh boy. Ooh boy. OOOH boy." until I wanted to hit her. But she was huge and already had an elbow right by my testicles, so I desisted.)

So overall, it was an eventful evening. Worth doing. Just dress up a bit. The ostriches are few and far between (there was some hyperbole up there I'll admit), and they generally make giant fools of themselves. You're there for the art, not to show off your Blahniks. Oh and also, if someone tells you their dancers are going to dance in the flesh, ask for a conditional refund.