Yoga For Bank Tellers

Hello, I’m Spirit Song, and this is one in a series of Yoga Sessions For The Searching Soul. Today we’ll be doing a set of stretches targeting those muscle groups used by bank tellers.

But you needn’t be a bank teller to participate in this session. Any searching soul can enjoy its beneficial effects. All you need is a yoga mat you can purchase with any major credit card by dialing the phone number shown below. In the mean time, you can follow along from your floor, or bed if that feels more comfortable. I recommend the bed.

The one thing to remember is to always breath. Proper breathing is essential. If you do not breath, you will die. I will remind you throughout the session to keep breathing.

Let’s begin. Start by sitting upright, centering your torso over your buttocks. Now spread your left leg out and away from your center. Extend the thigh. Notice how my thigh is extended away from my groin area. Now tuck the toes of your right foot into your crotch. If you can’t make it all the way, that’s okay. Just breath deeply as you stare at my crotch.

Raise your right arm over your head and allow the hand to roll over and cup your left ear. Breathe in as you do this, unless you already have done so, in which case you should now breathe out. Continue this cycle of breathing unless I indicate otherwise.

Now take your left hand and twist it behind your back and up as far as it will go. Hold your hand in this reverse half-prayer position as you continue to force it to rise up in a slicing arc between your shoulder blades. This is called the “pleading supplicant” position. Don’t worry if you can’t go as far as I can. Just remember to keep breathing, or you will pass out and possibly not regain consciousness.

Now, with your right hand clutching your left ear and your left hand in the “ninja assassin” position between your scapular crevice, bend forward until your forehead is pressed heavily against the floor, in the “shamed eunuch” pose. Hold this position for as long as is humanly possible. Work to your edge, not over it. How will you know you’ve reached the edge? If you’ve ever given birth to twins or attempted to rob a bank for the first time, you’ll know the edge when you feel it. In the mean time, you might like to watch me as I search for my edge.

Don’t be concerned if you can’t go down on the floor the way I can. If you wish, take careful note of the supple contours of my body as I demonstrate. Breathe in... and out. Repeat. Notice how my ribcage undulates rhythmically. Yours should be undulating as well.

Come to an upright position, again centered over my buttocks. Now spread the right leg outward, mirroring the direction of the left, forming the “life funnel” position. The two diverging thighs are now in dynamic tension. Separate them as far as they will go. Again, don’t be surprised if your body looks nothing like mine. Take a good look at my life funnel. Any resemblance to yours? I seriously doubt it.

Now interlock both hands, raise them up, over, and behind the back of the neck, arching your chest outward as you tilt your head back, into the “welcoming waif” position. Rock forward. And back. And forward again, breathing all the while.

Now repeat this series in reverse. Or just watch me do it for you as you massage those parts of your body needing special attention after all that stretching.

If you’d like to view different sessions depicting my bodily contours in other positions, you may order any of the many videos produced for this series.

Just always remember to keep breathing.

Death By Ikea

Listen, this is a misleading title, because I know IKEA didn’t initiate the slaughter of the English language. But the blanched bastards did perfect the art of saying absolutely nothing while indulging their artistic egos in useless pencil doodlings.

Perhaps it stems from the shame any Swede must feel for his mother tongue, the sound of which resembles the gurgling boil of a lung-shot sniper victim as it trips off the tortured muscle. Just try to pronounce the name of any featured product while meandering along the show floor maze that accounts for half the lost citizenry featured on America’s milk cartons. It’s the surest way of clearing your sinuses, and makes Hebrew sound lyrical in comparison. La Chaim.

I’m not sure when the primal crawl back to the cave began, but I think the wunderkind Steve Jobs had something to do with it. We are now, a few short decades since the conception of the shit-faced Happy Mac, awash in icons for every desperate message possible, from that of the low coolant alert to the suggestion that I might have just been exposed to radioactive contamination.

I have more than once wet myself at the entry to a public restroom door after an overly long stop to figure out if I might possibly bust in on a woman with a dress hiked to her hips. By all means, compadre, have fun with your paintbrush, but follow up with any common word for “guy”, capiche, puta?

Jesus H. Christo, I’m starting to feel like a damn ditto-head. If you can’t read the language of the road, you should not be behind the wheel of a three-ton projectile. You passed the driver’s test, n’est pas, Horst? Stop! No Left Turn! Your Lights Are On, and when you try to start it up in the morning you’re going to get nothing but that clicking noise.

Note that when you are driving toward Miami, the sign says “Miami”. It’s not a Peter Max caricature of pink flamingos shitting on flamboyant Cubans from the tops of palm trees. So why must I consult my owner’s manual when a light on my dash begins to glow, seeming to indicate that my car would have really good reception were it a cell phone?

If you can’t spell, put a voice chip in my ride, you ancient, white, bankrupt assholes. What would it cost you for the technology now? Eighteen cents? A Tonka toy gives me more usable information about itself than my Beemer does. Hell, I’ll pay extra for a sexy hooker voice to coo at me: “Meine liebe schein, you just left your key in my ignition hole, and I’m holding on to it until you give me a super-fine wax job!” Miss Leni can come bundled with the deluxe interior lighting package for all I care.

An idiot light on my dash announces that I am an idiot. I have no idea if my brakes are preparing to fail or if my car is just happy to see me. And the Bavarian Uber-Tinkers whoforcenitalltogetherfrompeecesundparts won’t let up with the crypto-messages. Masters of micromanagement, they terrorize me with an alarm that goes off when the ambient temperature drops to 37 degrees Fahrenheit. You know why? Because water can freeze on a bridge surface at that temperature, given the proper atmospheric conditions.Wunderbar! And dunkeshein for the tip, Hans! Now how about a foghorn when der dew point matches der wind chill, just for shites und giggles.

When they do speak my language, it’s still cryptic. “Check Engine” for what reason, exactly? Oh, that’s right. Only a certified wizard with the proper magic wand can tell me for a cool C-note that the last grease monkey to fill the tank didn’t tighten the gas cap to Arian specs, der Dumkopf!

Back at the fjords, minimalist Euro-designers have decided there’s no point in attempting to speak to its New World consumers. It’s as if they intended their merchandise to be assembled by preschoolers. How much could these global entrepreneurs possibly be saving by not printing the words, “Make sure you don’t tighten the screws too tightly, because we used inferior materials to manufacture the piece of shit you actually intend to let your newborn sleep in”? And how do you say, “Bite me, Sven, you lazy lingenberry swiller,” in precious little icons that will take him half the next war to decode?

I know one thing. These guys are so cheap that if there are eight hundred fourteen pieces of hardware included in your Skrotum business hutch kit, you wont have a single sparelockenvasher left over once it’s finally assembled, so you know some braided ponytailer will be logging overtime counting every last piece out into hermetically-sealed snack bags. What they gain by saving an ounce of hardware they must certainly spend on the going meeneemuummwagen at theweejeetfaktorie.

I’m guessing the problem is this: these guys have chopped all their fingers off in the woodshop trying to figure out how to make furniture that requires only a hex wrench and three times the amount of Elmer’s glue they provide to assemble. As a result, there’s nobody around able to type out legible instructions, so they get their dyslexic kids to draw the pictures during lunch break at the branestormskoolen.

After the three days it took me to construct a kitchen pantry puzzle from the Smegma line, cockroaches commenced to dismantle it with the corrosive effects of their excretion. Next time I think I’ll just take out a home equity loan to have some Ethan Allen monstrosity delivered in one fully assembled piece. The tip for the deliverers alone would pay for a double bed from Stockholm, but who cares? It beats the cost of three years of therapy.

There. I’ve had my say. Now all I have to do is save this thing. No, that’s clip. Shit, that’s paste. What’s this? Undo typing? Damn! You know what? Screw it. Just screw it. Try saying that with icons.

Tiger Tiger in the Woods

What a sad, sad story. Tragic, really.

And how is that, exactly? Another self-absorbed uber-athlete gets caught with his Looms hung up on a bum knee and we’re supposed to respect his personal space. Screw you, Tiger. You and your bogus trophy life up your enTitleisted fairway.

I’ll respect the private life of you and your fellow hucksterjocks (can we make this a real word real soon?) the day you respect mine. Not that I give a whit for guys who whack away at dimpled balls the size of their cranial cavities, but I pay good money to my cable company to be entertained.

My cable company, Keemosabe. Remember when Cable was the paying alternative to commercials? The surrogate to broadcast television, where we’d forget what we’d been watching after being force-fed a raft of ads pushing diuretics, depilatories and diaper alternatives?

Somehow very early on in the game cable networks went, “Hey! Let’s charge the stupid SOB's for shitty programming AND run commercials too! They’ll never know the difference.” And they went and did it right in front of our noses, and when their ilk became so numerous as to confuse us as to what the hell we were watching, they started running their logos on the bottom of our screen. Then they started running commercials for competing networks because other networks were willing to pay them to do it. Jesus, why not run ads telling us we should turn the channel right now because they suck at what they do? But I digress.

The point is Tiger Woods can buss my backside. And the reason I encourage Mr. Woods to have at it is because he has willfully abrogated his right to a private life. He traded it in for cash money. He bartered his toothy smile for cootchie action.

The most prolific athlete ever, after maybe Kobe Bryant or Pete Rose, invades my private life like an unsolicited witness for Jehovah, hawking his own concocted form of paradise. Know what, Mr. Wonderful? I don’t care what fragrance you you smear on your armpits, what bank you’ve broken to put the current time on your wrist, what hydrant-stalking SUV you park in your garage, what paper product you wipe your ass with. I don’t wish to be harassed by your personal choice in fast-food restaurants any more than you wish to be signing an autograph for my Aunt Edna on the fourteenth fairway.

You think you deserve a private life? Then forgo ninety percent of your income and go back to swatting golf balls for the sorry souls who get off on the sport of couch-masturbation. How about this: forego all of it and stick to tournaments passed over by television subsidization. Then tell me how attractive anonymity feels. All the way to the bank, asshole.

The second you sheath your magic driver and don a sandwich board for any of the products Madison Avenue heaps money on you to hype, you’ve invaded my private space. Pull a stunt with a party chick on the sly while the Euro-hubstress is at home polishing the family crystal is the same as porking a hooker on my porch, Zoro. That’s entertainment. Shit, it’s the best kind of reality television, because it’s actually real. So consider yourself busted on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

This is more fun than I’ve ever had watching golf. And while I admire the specific talent a handful of guys have honed tracking one of your approach shots to the green, I so much more get a kick out of the yellow journalists who are having a field day with your “private life." Because that’s part of the deal whether you like it or not. And you deserve the shit that’s happening to you right now, because you figured the fine print the rest of us subscribe to, in your case simply doesn’t apply.

Media Hysteria

To whom it may concern:

I’ve finally decided to take the advice Peter Finch gave in his inspired performance as a demented anchorman in the film “Network.” I’m sticking my head out the window to say I’m mad as hell and I’m not taking it anymore. Furthermore, I’m going so far as to admit that I am the reason for the madness. I’m to blame for all the public hysteria. I am the media.

As a freelance cameraman in New York City I’m a hired gun for any TV producer with a story to sell, and believe you me there are plenty of folks working for the networks wishing to sell you a story. These stories are sometimes termed “news events.” They purport to document a kind of reality. I do not ask whether each story is informational or enlightening or tasteful or relevant or truthful. If I am available, I’ll shoot it. All I ask in return is payment for services rendered. I have a mouth to feed. I have bills to pay.

The producers I work for don’t ask these questions either. They have jobs too, and they want to keep them. What they want to know is their budget and their deadline. With their allotted time and money each attempts to titillate you more than his or her rivals, working for all those other networks vying for your discretionary time.

A producer once asked me to videotape a man being led by the FBI from his criminal booking to a jail cell. The man was handcuffed and paraded in front of my camera for what’s termed the “perp walk” in video news parlance. The FBI waited with their human freak-show until I was ready. It was never explained what crime the man was alleged to have committed, and I didn’t ask. As he was led past my lens he called me a vulture. I put his guilty puss on TV while the producer held a light on him. Producers have bills to pay too.

The people at the networks (folks just like you and me) can come up with no better way to keep your attention than to inundate you with tales of the horrific. If something terrible does not happen today in your city, they will scour the state. If your state does not provide the suitably grotesque, they’ll scour the country. And if this country does not provide a story hideous enough for your appetite, they will tap a satellite and discover some remote corner of the globe where something just awful will testify to the fact that your precious world is coming apart at the seams. These people are desperate. The technology isn’t cheap. You should see the bills they get.

If we miss the carnage as it happens, we may provide you with a “dramatic reenactment.” Sometimes we indulge in a little artistic license to enhance the story line. If this isn’t enough to foot the bill (it’s just huge, let me tell you) there are more people like us who will invent stories that seem real but are just hocus pocus designed to tickle your fancy. The stories mainly involve lots of destruction and evil men lurking in places that look frighteningly close to home. We have gotten quite good at making imaginary things look real, so much so that you have become frightened and confused as to what’s really out there. Just what is happening? You are all flocking to the mayhem like lemmings. It pays the bills.

You seem to love to watch bad guys, so we give them to you in bus loads; sneering, scowling, brawling, upending fruit carts, ruining luxury automobiles in droves. We used to give your demons names like Lefty and Rocko. We had them sell bootleg liquor, hang out of fast cars and shoot Tommy guns into the night. Interestingly enough they’re the good guys now. They sponsor sporting events like the Super Bowl. They help subsidize your cable bill.

Now we make the bad guys dark and muscular, and call them Tyrone and Miguel. We have them sell drugs and ride around in fast boats and shoot automatic weapons into the night. Where has our imagination gone? Who’s got the time? The bills keep piling up.

These new bad guys seem much more menacing. The old white guys have become too laughable, with their paunches and their tax dodges and their in-house investigations. What a hoot. How about that wacky Worldcom deal, huh? Was that a bill, or what? That didn’t scare anybody. Might make a good sitcom, though.

The most frightened people of all seem to be the politicians. This is ironic because we hired them to be smarter than us, to protect us from our own imaginations, but the idea backfired. Every election they’re afraid we won’t re-hire them if the perception is they’ve failed to protect us. They are so afraid they’ll lose their jobs they run around sponsoring “get tough” laws, financing star war toys, and pursuing terrorists to the ends of the earth, while promising in the presence of these immense expenditures to lower everyone’s tax bill. How can they do all this? Their own brand of hocus pocus, of course.

It finally took some words from a character that isn’t real to wake me up. Maybe those old white guys aren’t so funny after all. While they have us all running around like chickens with our heads cut off, they’ve got those politicians, more old white guys, protecting us from our own shadows. While busy checking behind the curtain for signs of Tyrone, we’re getting our pockets picked by guys named... Newt?? It’s the great American snow job, and in the process we’ve run up the Mother Of All Bills.

So I’m just not going to take it any more. As soon as I’m done here I’m going to submit this to some suitable forum, and then I’m going to clean up my desk. My desk right here... Jesus, would you look at all these bills.