The Hypochondriac at the Cell Theatre: It's Sick

As faithful followers of this blog know (there must be 2 or 3 of you out there...) I have mixed feelings about illness. On one hand, I like making fun of people who worry about swine flu. On the other hand, I like googling random symptoms and diagnosing myself with rare diseases based on information I can find online. On one hand, I won't go to doctors or take antibiotics, on the other hand, I'm mildly addicted to Excedrin.

While I may be confused about my feelings on health and well-being, I know exactly how I feel about satire. I love it. So I was very excited to get an invite to The Hypochondriac at the Cell Theatre. The play is a modern adaption of Moliere's Le Malade Imaginaire in which a very rich man is duped by doctors into thinking he is very ill (with what disease, we don't know) and needs oodles of expensive medicine and enemas. (So basically, he's a Hollywood star, except bald and in a bathrobe.)

In this adaption, brought to life by my fellow Revolving Floor contribut0r Chris Harcum (who also plays the title role, Mr. Argan), Matthew Gregory, Shira Gregory and Greg Tito, Moliere's message about the idiocy of doctors is converted into a critique of our pill-popping society. The set TV played occasional commercials for made up diseases like Wandering Eye Syndrome (when your boyfriend stares down other girls' shirts) and Mr. Argan's brother Barry (Douglas Scott Sorenson) reveals a magic cure for heart disease: exercise. (Duh!)

These messages were interesting and relevant, but for me, the real joy of the show was witnessing a kind of comedic brilliance that we don't see frequently in modern shows. Maybe I'm nerd because I think Moliere is hilarious, but this cast brought the work to life with the perfect blend of vaudevillian slapstick, tight delivery and genuine acting chops. Moliere's characters are stereotypes, but in The Hypochondriac, they become real in a way that is simultaneously comfortingly familiar and piercingly refreshing. In short: I LOVED LOVED LOVED this show for its ability to entertain, offer social commentary, and remind me of how essential classical theatre is.

For example, nobody writes great women like Moliere does, and Vivienne Leheny, as the brilliant and conniving maid, Toinette, does an invigorating job of proving it. Harcum is impetuous and determined as Argan, rising to the tremendous challenge of playing the ass and victim in a troupe full of willful characters. Kyle Haggerty brings levity and hilarity as a socially inept and idiotic young medical student. As Argan's hyper-rational brother Barry, Sorenson shines like a beacon into the dark mesh of hysteria and self-absorption that plagues the other characters.

So, in short, I recommend the play. And maybe giving up pills, too. The day after I saw the Hypochondriac, we learned about the Ayurveda in Yoga Teacher Training. Ayurveda is a holistic form of health care that advocates creating a lifestyle suited specifically to one's constitution. Apparently, I would have no physical or mental problems if I just napped, quit caffeine and ate lots of oatmeal. Easy! (she says from her perch at Starbucks, empty Venti cup faithfully by her side...)

My teacher warned us that choosing this path isn't easy, but I really think I can! Fare thee well, dear Excedrin. It's been real.

DoDos Around the Web: The Band, The Politician and Big Bird

It's been said that things always show up in threes. I noticed that my last two posts on PopMatters.com were related to Dodos. One was a review of the San Francisco-based band, The Dodos, at the Music Hall of Willamsburg. There, I discovered that the Dodos are lot more interesting than they sound on their last album, which was produced by Phil Ek, who has worked with other not-immensely-interesting bands like the Shins. (Not that I really have anything against the Shins...)

The other was a review of Ralph Nader's new book, Only the Super-Rich Can Save Us! in which Nader proves over the course of 736 pages that he is, himself, a Dodo, or at the very least, a bad writer with delusions of grandeur.

I was waiting for the third Dodo to fall from the sky when I saw Cookie Monster on the Google homepage and realized it's the 40th Anniversary of Sesame Street. The PopMatters Mixed Media Blog has Sesame Street covered, too, with the Sesame Street Turns 40 Video Collection. You can also visit the official Sesame Street Homepage for more child and adult-friendly videos.

Personally, I love all things Sesame Street, but nothing more than the movie Follow That Bird, the story of how Big Bird goes to live with a family of Dodos so he live with animals "of his own kind." It turns out of course that even though the Dodos are birds like Big Bird, his real friends are the one on Sesame Street who may not look like him, but certainly understand and love him. Still, the Dodo family is pretty hilarious and from what I remember, Follow That Bird is a top-notch film. On a whim, I decided to some hunting around YouTube for Follow That Bird videos and found this song, "Ain't No Mountain You Can't Climb." I was surprised to discover I remembered all the words, but concluded the song is probably the reason why I was such an astoundingly over-confident three-year old.

Mainly I think this song is so great because Sesame Street is so realistic and ironic. While Jennings is spouting his cheery, kickin' country inspiration, Bert and Ernie are fighting about the color of Big Bird, Oscar is driving off the road, and Cookie Monster is looking for cookies. In fact, Big Bird is no where close to home, but tapping his webbed-foot along to a catchy tune certainly doesn't hurt. Grown-ups get the sad humor of Big Bird hopping delighted off the truck only to realize that he has no idea where Sesame Street is located, but it doesn't take away from entertainment value of the tune. Somehow, Sesame Street finds a way to make fun of everybody and inspire toddlers at the same time. This is basically my goal in life. (minus the toddlers.)

I think of all the characters, the Count has the best idea. He points out that no road is too long, as long as you can count telephone poles. If you suspect you are in for a long wait, it's always a good idea to find something to be passionate about other than the ticking of the second hand on your watch.

Hear Today: ArpLine

A couple of weeks ago, I was driving around Williamsburg with my friend and his 5-year-old daughter. They tried to introduce me to one of the greatest songs of all time, "C is for Cookie."

Because we were beneath the BQE on Meeker avenue, and because the person trying to cross the street had on a stupid hat and sunglasses even though it was raining, I felt it was appropriate to roll my eyes and groan, "whatever. I was listening to 'C is for cookie' 20 years ago..on vinyl" while silently celebrating: "Yes. Yes. Yes. I finally sound like a hipster!"

In reality, listening to the Sesame Street album, which, by the way, is absolutely fantastic, reminded me that even though I will never be able to pull off skinny jeans and rarely remember my sunglasses even when the sun is out, discovering new music is still a valuable activity. (For example, while listening to the Sesame Street album, I discovered, Kermit the Frog, singing "This Frog" based on "My Way," a brilliant and inspiring tune that I'd never heard in my youth)

Soon after, by accident, I stumbled upon KEXP.org, a Seattle based radio station that plays a lot of music that is in the same caliber as muppet music but kind of different genre. Featuring mostly independent artists, KEXP, like Sesame Street, is an "innovative cultural force."

Last week, KEXP had a band from Brooklyn in the studio that is so independent that they don't even have a label yet. (Yes! I really finally sound like a hipster!!) It is called ArpLine, and you can hear a lot of different influences in the music, (the usual cocktail of Joy Division, Arcade Fire, with a hint of Animal Collective, etc.) but the the sound is a little bit more raw. They don't define their genre on their myspace page but they are catchy (and not in the way that Jordan Sparks is catchy but I have to pretend she's not to save face.)

So. Take one step at a time. Visit ArpLine online, or listen here. This their song, "Rope."

Teaching Your Children About Spirituality

I've started to think that no matter how much you don't believe in God, His name still crops up in the vernacular, and the collective conscious. For example, today, when the sun came out after a day of torrential downpours, I thought, "Oh no! God is a Yankees fan!" Now that I see the Phillies are winning, I'm thinking maybe He's a Phillies fan. Or maybe God is one of those un-American dudes who prefers soccer to baseball. Maybe He's not even American...but if He's not, why would he let George W. in on the secret about weapons of mass destruction in Iraq?

Regardless, it is certainly easy to slip into God-talk, and, as demonstrated above, it is just as easy to slip into really irreverent God-talk. (Honestly, my guess is that God is so devoted to the Mets, He doesn't even know who's in the World Series...)

However, I've been spending some time with my friends' children lately, and I realize that you have to choose your words carefully, especially if you are spending time with children who don't belong to you. Having penned the highly useful "5 Web sites to Develop Your Child's Spirituality" and as a committed and spiritual yogini, I'm certainly not advocating telling anyone under the age of 10 that God is dead. (I'd say the 11th birthday is a good time to introduce Nietzsche). But as anyone who's ever yelled "F(*K" in front of a toddler can attest, it's easy to slip up.

Last week, I was hanging out with a friend's six-year-old son who wanted to know why Bar Mitzvahs happened at 13:

Me: Because the Bible says so.

Him: Why?

Me: Because that's when the people in the Bible decided.

Him: Who are they?

Me: Uh, the people in the Bible.

Him: But WHY?

Me: I don't know. That's why some people think the Bible is made up.

Oops. I'd like to hope he doesn't know what "made up" means but given the highly skeptical nature of his questioning, I doubt that's the case. Either way, I vowed to be more prepared the next time I was confronted. Sure enough, we were eating dinner the other night and he asked, "Is Hell a bad word?"

"Well," I replied. "It is sometimes. It's a not a good place."

"What is it?"

"Do you know what Heaven is?"

He nodded.

"Well, Hell is the opposite of Heaven."

"Ah, so it's where you go if you don't believe in Heaven."

I was stumped, and tempted to reply, "No, if you don't believe in Heaven you just live a fuller life on earth and then decompose when you die..." but instead went with an emphatic, "Um, kind of..sure!"

"But," his wheels were spinning. "If God is everywhere....he's not in Hell."

"No. I guess not."

I was still brainstorming a way to make Hell not seem scary when he hit me up again. "God is everywhere and everything right?"

"Yes!" This made sense from a yoga perspective, too, and it was better than distracting him with Dante, which had been my back up plan.

"Ok, fine." He looked seriously perplexed. "There's something I don't get then. Who's that..I mean...what's that...uh, do you know His son?"

I choked on my breath for a second. Did I personally know God's son? Why..yes! In fact, He loved me, or so I'd read on a bumper sticker in Florida. I replied evenly, "You mean Jesus?"

"Yeah! That's him. Jesus. I don't get how if God is everywhere and everything, he had a son. You can't have a kid like that. You need a human parent to have a kid."

Determined not to screw up, I explained, "Well, he had his mother. Mary. She's a human."

I thought I was saved. But he was too smart. "You need two parents. The Dad can't be everywhere and everything."

Think fast, I willed myself. "That's true, usually you do need two parents. But that's why Jesus is a miracle. He was born even though it shouldn't have been possible, so it's a miracle. Have you heard of miracles?"

He nodded enthusiastically, then paused. "Yeah. Like if you had a Chinese twin..."

"Excuse me?"

He tilted his head. "I mean a Japanese twin."

"Um..."

"Connected, I mean."

"Oh! You mean a Siamese twin." I was lost.

He clapped his hands and nodded eagerly. "Yeah! Two heads...one body! Now that's a miracle!"

Dutifully, I explained to him that Siamese twins actually have two bodies. But in hindsight, I think it's probably ok that I told him the Bible was made up.

Learning to Love the Lost and Broken

I've never been much of a materialistic person. I hate shopping. I don't like fancy things. I don't think wealth is important. But ever since we've been reading the Yoga Sutras for Teaching Training, I've been overcome with feelings of non-coolness with non-attachment.

After first reading the Sutras on the subway, the first thing I did after I got off was go to Bloomingdale's--just to look around--at things. My second stop was Sephora, where I tried on make-up, even though before reading the Sutras, I never wore make-up. At first, I thought my behavior was really strange, but now, I see that it was entirely essential in order for me to really understand the Sutras.

You see, in order to understand non-attachment, you have to have something to detach from. I had avoided material possessions, but not because of yoga or deeper philosophy. The Sutras say that the world is a playground, and we have to use it to understand ourselves. Only then can we step away from the world and see our true selves. I wasn't necessarily in the world, but I hadn't made a conscious decision to step away from it, either. Even the Sutras say that self-denial for the sake of self-denial doesn't count for sh*t.

It made me think that maybe, my awesome brother, who is somewhat more into material possessions than I am, might actually be further along on the yogic path. You see, when I graduated college, he gave me a really expensive pair of sunglasses with the advice, "Growing up means having something expensive, and being able to cope if you lose it or break it." For the past week, I have been trying to convince people that my brother and the Dalai Lama are totally on the same wavelength.

Last night, I got evidence that this is true. One of my teacher trainers told a parable that she said had truly shaped her life. At an ashram, one of the students has the job of cleaning his guru's room everyday. The only possession the guru has is a tea cup, which he loves dearly. Unfortunately, the student breaks the teacup. Mortified and devastated, he goes to his guru to report the bad news.

But the guru is not angry or even sad. Instead he says, "Don't worry. I only loved it because I knew it was already broken."

The point is, we take care of things knowing full well that they're going to break or be lost. We love them because we know it's impossible to have them forever. My brother, immersed in a good taste, not only picked the same rose tinted Ray-Bans for me as Gwyneth Paltrow had, he also picked out the same the moral that is contained in an essential Buddhist parallel. Genius.

I, on the other hand, have spent most of the last 10 years trying to avoid truly loving or owning anything (people, possessions, places) because I don't want to admit that they're already broken and lost. Unfortunately, this kind of attitude leads to a lot of boring, spiritually stunted time in the Playground of Life.

And the point isn't about clothes either. It's about everything that falls under the Umbrella of Achievement. It doesn't actually matter if all my clothing comes from clothing swaps. But it does matter that I find some way of entering a relationship of non-attachment with Success.

Again, I have my brother to thank for getting the wheels turning. On Thursday, he asked me to take him to his NY State Road Test in the Bronx so he could finally get a driver's license. Granted, I am the only "under-employed" person he knows. But I was still very flattered...and also very nervous, a sentiment I tried to hide by suggesting we play "I, Spy" while we waited in line. (The fact that he agreed to it for at least one round was the biggest shock of the day.)

Then, his turn came. I got out of the car and made a break for a local playground to find a bathroom, filling my mind with positive energy and thoughts of perfect K-turns and spacious areas for parallel parking. Turn on your blinker, check your mirrors, glance in the blind spot... I repeated in my head. But then I realized something. While I wanted him to pass, I didn't really care if he didn't. I was just so excited to be the one who got to take him, to be the one marveling at the cleanliness of public toilets in the Bronx while he paused at the 4-way stop signs down the road.

I thought back to my own road test, and it occurred to me that I'd probably been immensely worried that my dad, who took me there, was going to be annoyed and disappointed if I failed. But of course, this was not the case. That is not what parenting, or loving, is about. Loving is the honor you feel when you get to be a part of someone else's journey--when you get to be something slightly more than a passive witness for a few moments in another human's existence. Pass, fail, lost, broken....whatever. I was, briefly, indifferent to the outcome.

(I'm sure the fact that the park bathroom had toilet paper and running water contributed to my happiness. After all, if the world is your playground, it doesn't hurt to have one with a nice bathroom...but we get to learn from Nature, and I don't think Punjali would judge me for being.....relieved.)

Anyway, all my spiritual growth was nice..but for naught. He passed the test. We had a dance party in the car. And I waited 25 minutes before shrieking at him for texting while being stopped at a red light.

He was not pleased. "You really to take a breath and pause before you scream at someone like that," he told me. "You need to think about the tone of your voice, and whether it's really necessary."

I think I have a new guru. Bring on the teacups.

It's Moby Dick, It's an Albatross...no! It's Handstand!

I'm now at a point where I am (proud?) to announce that while I can balance in the middle of the room in a handstand for a few moments once I've been assisted, I still can't kick up.

I went to a new teacher today, who after giving me a spot up, exclaimed in surprise, "You're very strong up here. Just give it more momentum." She didn't offer a spot when we went back for our next handstand, and after she came over to watch me pathetically kicking, I explained, "Handstand is my White Whale."

"Ah, it's your albatross." Now, at a first glance, I guess this sounds like a mixed metaphor, or maybe my yoga teacher wasn't an English major or a Brearley girl and just didn't realize the difference, but as an English major and a Brearley girl, I feel compelled to over-analyze this apparent mix-up and assume that the poet (aka yogaworks teacher) deliberately made her word selection to convey an important message.

So I started to think: What are the differences and similarities between Moby Dick and the Albatross? Both are the catalyst for endless, hopeless maritime misadventures. Both lead the protagonist on a quest. Both ultimately hold the protagonist as an emotional and physical prisoner. In both cases, the sea creature in question replaces religion for the protagonist.

But the differences seem more important. For example, Moby Dick attacked Captain Ahab, inciting him to seek irrational revenge. The Albatross was just flying through the sky minding its own business when the Ancient Mariner shot it down for the sake of sheer gratuitous cruelty. Ahab won't stop hunting for Moby Dick, but has a choice. the Ancient Mariner can't stop wandering because he's being punished for his act of irrational self-sabotage. Moby Dick is elusive, but the Albatross is hung around the Ancient Mariner's neck. He just needs to find a way to unshackle himself.

In looking over that last paragraph, it still seems more appealing to view handstand as a White Whale...after all, it's not like I view my inability to kick my feet into the the air as punishment for something. However, after deeper consideration, the Albatross makes sense. Thinking of handstand as some abnormally large sperm whale that might show up or might not and might kill me or might not shoves handstand into the realm of magical thinking (which is already filled with unrealistic goals like cleaning my room, getting enough sleep and steady employment.) Thinking of it as the Albatross implies that it's always going to be with me, and I'm not going to get to go home until I figure out a way to deal with it. It also puts the responsibility back on me, because I'm the one that shot the bird in the first place.

The other nice thing about the Albatross metaphor is that with Moby Dick, if I find him, all I get is revenge and triumph. If I can repent for my sin of killing the albatross, I get freedom. (We'll ignore the fact that what the Ancient Mariner really gets is the right to die...although maybe if there is an afterlife, it's just like being upside-down...) More to the point, the Albatross is an impingement to personal spirituality (Instead of the cross/the albatross...etc.) Shirking the burden of the Albatross also necessitates a constant awareness and practice, while Moby Dick just has be found. (Being honest, as messy as my room is, I would never find him.)

To that end, after class, the teacher came to talk to me about my albatross. She gave me some exercises to do for my weak psoas muscle that might enable me to get the momentum I need to kick. They don't look super fun or easy, but I think they are probably more manageable than watching your fellow sailors die of dehydration before getting kicked off the boat and wandering the ocean in state of eternal damnation. Although if next week is a bad as this week, I might get to experience that, anyway...

I'm Not Meant to Feel Like This

The first time a yoga teacher ever impacted my life beyond the mat was in frog pose (pictured above.) Frog post is a kind of split, it is is really painful, and at my yoga studio in college, we ended every class doing it for about 5 minutes. Ouch!

But one day, as we were all crouched there with burning legs, my teacher said, "I know this hurts, but imagine this was It. The rest of your life was just going to be frog pose forever. How would you find a way to bear it--even enjoy it. If this was life, how would you make it work it for you?"

It's a philosophy I've used many a time after that, but rarely on the yoga mat. Every time I'm in some really horrendous situation that's causing me tremendous pain, I think, "imagine if this was life. Imagine if there was no way out. How will I make this bearable?" In short, I've endured all kinds of crap by telling myself to imagine that there was no way out, that was I was stuck, and I'd just have to find a way to enjoy it.

This method helps one develop a solid, sarcastic, self-deprecating sense of humor, but I'm starting to learn that it does not actually help one to be remotely happy. What's happy about pretending that life is a series of miniature entrapments in painful positions? Nothing, I guess. But it still never occurred to me that I had a choice, until tonight.

Teacher Training Weekend 6 was wrapping up, and we were going over poses that are safe for beginners. Suddenly, for no reason, I turned my friend and whispered, "what happened to frog pose? I haven't done a frog in, like, 4 years" Apparently she had never done a frog pose ever so I forgot all about it until my teacher started mentioning poses one should never teach, because they were so dangerous and rife with possibility for serious injury.

"Russian split is one," she told us emphatically. I'd never heard of it, but when she demonstrated, my jaw dropped. I pointed and squeaked, poking my friend. "It's frog! It's frog!"

So, lesson learned: The next time you are in a position (life, mat, otherwise) that feels really painful, instead of telling yourself you're trapped and forcing yourself to like it, find someone who can will tell you that agony is actually a bad thing, and mandate that you never do it again.

Namaste.