Shaman you!

The guy looked like

a Robinson Caruso character sent directly from Paramount Pictures central casting, Mexico branch, a little lion of a man bushy haired and bushy bearded - a salt and peppered sunburst framing his brown face. When he answered the door I half expected him to dash behind a chair or table leg squatting on his haunches glaring at me like he hadn’t seen another living human in half a lifetime. Instead I was welcomed in and offered a cup of tea. “Muy Caliente!” he warned me.

I’d been in Oaxaca (pronounced wahawka) for almost a week and this was my last adventure before heading back to the States, Temazcal, an authentic indigenous pre-Columbian sweat lodge purification ceremony. I speak no Spanish and my wiry little chum spoke no English so we had that going for us.

As I drank my tea the shaman scittered around his place getting things in order for my appointment in a skintight gray wife beater and matching boxer briefs his lean muscles stretched over his bones like partially inflated bicycle tire tubes. He reminded me of one of those mid jump aerobics instructors you click by while channel surfing. I handed him my empty cup and he got the show on the road.

First he walked around me shaking a bouquet of aromatic branches low pitch chanting as he circled. Then he switched the branches out for a three legged pot filled with burning charcoal and incense permeating me and my clothes with the smoke. All the while recordings of chanting, drum beats and wooden flutes are playing in the background. He put the incensory aside and took a big sip of what I assume was Mezcal (tequila made from the agave plant) walked behind me, lifted my shirt, and sprayed the contents of his mouth on my back. This was bit startling – when he filled his mouth again and walked in front of me lifting my shirt and exposing my stomach the fact that I knew what was coming made it no less disquieting. He then sprayed each of my hands and motioned for me to disrobe.

While I was untying my shoe he whipped off his clothes and quick as a lizard pointed at then scurried on all fours into the sweat lodge. The sweat lodge itself a structure inside the building made from adobe bricks about four feet tall and I would estimate eight feet square with a small doorway covered with a thick woolen blanket. I followed behind and he pointed to a far corner of the space indicating where he wanted me to sit, then he dropped the rug over the doorway.

Okay, so now I am naked in a tiny pitch black room with a little wildman making noises that sound like he is washing dishes cattycorner to me while the temperature is slowly rising – what could possibly go wrong? In just a couple minutes I am sweating like I am in the middle of a triathlon, the shaman rustles a bunch of branches, directing more of the hot air in my direction. This goes on for about fifteen minutes – every now and then he asks “Bueno?” and I reply “Bueno.” All the while the darkness and drum beats are punctuated by his deep loud bearlike sighs. And it’s getting hotter.

He says something and I reply, “No Comprende.” He lifts the rug flap a bit letting in a slit of light and motions for me to lie down on my back. I notice that it is a bit cooler nearer the floor than it was sitting up but our guy fixes that by pouring a bit of water onto the steam source and fanning the result over my body with the branches again. This is where I began to lose track of time. It was literally too dark to see one’s hand in front of one’s face so space was perceptively limitless except for the sounding attributes of the medicine man’s exhalations. I am completely drenched in my own sweat, sloshing as I adjust my position on the carpeted floor beneath me. Subsequently we go through the "me not understanding his directions” ritual of letting in a sliver of light and I figure out that now I am to flip over to my stomach.

More steam, more branch waving, more heat – I notice a puddle in the small of my back, I believe I might be getting a little lightheaded. I hear sloshing again and am thinking that I am not sure how more heat I can take but this time instead of pouring the water over the hot stones to raise the temp a bit he throws the cold water over my body. Just a little wakeup call, he does his three more times and I realize the relief that this provides. He then has me lift my legs up in the air while I remain on my stomach like a person saying an evening prayer who has had the bed snatched away and fallen onto their face locked into position. More steam, more branch rustling, more sighs, more heat.

I feel his hands motion my feet back down and I am prone again sweat pouring off of me like an overflowing bathtub. I hear the branches rustling again and figure more heat is on its way, but instead, he starts smacking me up and down my legs and back with the bundle. Not hard enough to cause any real pain but still it stings a bit. He goes up one side of my body then down the other four times paying special attention to the back of my head and neck, grunting a bit under the exertion. This is followed by the quadruple dousing of cool water which I am actually beginning to look forward to and he has me flip onto my back again.

We follow the same pattern; he cranks the heat up again, beats me up and down the front with a bundle of branches and douses me. God knows how much time has passed by. I am returned to the seated position and by now the air at head level is searing. Just when I am thinking I may have to call an end to this ceremony he throws open the door “Vamose.” I crawl out into the light like a sloth from a swamp and lie face down on a pile of blankets just outside of the doorway where I am covered with small pile of similar blankets to cool like a pie draped with a washcloth on a windowsill.

My spirit partner buries himself under a stack of his own as well. I am feeling pretty good but I can’t help wondering how much time has passed – I am also laughing to myself at the absurdity of my life, in a good way. Then I hear the shaman snoring – he’s passed out under his blankets and I’m thinking I may never get out of here so I let out a pretty loud bear sigh of my own and he rouses, wraps a blanket around his waist and brings me back another cup of tea – lukewarm this time.

This is followed by a routine massage similar to ones I have received at health clubs in the past and then I jump into the shower and get dressed. While I am showering the phone rings, my hosts here in Oaxaca are wondering where I am. It turns out that instead of the hour and a half session that they and I assumed I was getting, I had been there just under three hours! I’ve got to say, I felt pretty good afterwards. Not too bad for thirty eight bucks, the massage alone would have cost more back home and I don’t think it’s even legal to have a naked man beat you with branches in Mentor, Ohio!

what 36 years can do to a guy

Before

After

Today my son and I will be relocating some live chickens. Hopefully this will be uneventful - but there is some potential for unforeseen catastrophe.

update: The chicken moving escapade was pretty anticlimatic - while the premise was I Love Lucy rerun worthy - we put a couple chickens in dog carriers, drove them 40 miles in the back of my Honda Elelment - then set them loose in my sister's chicken pen along with a couple dozen of her own fowl. No harrowing escapes in the auto - no fighting with new chicken pen mates - no chickens attached to anyone's face as they stumbled around a pasture - nothing.

EHHH, What's up pops?

I’ve

actually been working on our new book the one on vocabulary acquisition. I’m putting together a chapter on why a teacher would want to incorporate performance into their curriculum and now I am playing hooky on my assignment by posting here.

Some studies have decided that the typical American’s vocabulary has been halved in the last century or so. I’m not sure that I completely buy this notion; not certain whether these inquires take into account new words being introduced into the lexicon or if they only track those that are disappearing. Even so, anecdotally, I can say I have noticed a discernable anti intellectualism parading through the U S of A zeitgeist.

Last night I watched our commander in chief interviewed by Bob Costas and I marveled at how this guy could be the head of a supposed superpower. I mean this smirking cowboy has his finger on the button that could turn the surface of our planet into a glowing skating rink for cockroaches.

Yep, there he blinks, head tilted at a 45 degree angle like some dog listening to a high pitch whine nobody else is hearing. That self congratulatory chuckle and mini head bob each time he manages to get through a whole sentence without swallowing his tongue. I half expect W to copy Michael Phelps’ ecstatic reaction to the American team’s victory in the freestyle relay (was that something else or what?) each time he successfully handles a word with more than three syllables.

This is us, this is the U.S.

Bush thrust his hand into pre-game huddle before the U.S - China basketball game where Clevelander Lebron James asked, “What’s up Pops?”

“Well let’s see, Last night I sat two seats away from Putin – Y’know, the guy whose soul I looked into, that didn’t work out so good ‘cause his country is bombing the bejesus out of another sovereign nation – and back home we’ve got this mortgage crisis, gas prices are pretty much out of control, in fact inflation is making a comeback, it’s been alleged that my administration cooked the books on the whole Iraq thing – forgeries that kind of stuff – heh, heh, heh - etc. etc. etc.”

How much ya wanna bet he really answered, “Not much.”

Now I don’t expect the president of the United States to really give an in depth existential answer to the power forward of a basketball team as they break huddle– even if it is King James, who on a side note I must say, has always done our fine city proud as a well spoken young man in any interview I have seen. I just wish we had a guy in the oval officethat I could believe had the capability to intelligently and articulately answer a question.

Maybe he just needs some vocabulary lessons?

Objects in mirror may be closer than they appear

So far this summer two writing and performance conferences where I was scheduled to present have been cancelled. The drag that gasoline prices have put on the economy added to the general malaise of a financial system bifurcating into hard-lined camps of haves and have-nots is hitting quite a few of the folks I know pretty hard. Add the subprime swindle waltz and the rising food price tango to this dance card and things are looking a bit bleak and unfortunately, I think it’ll be a few more years after this current crop of robber barons blow office before anything gets noticeably better. Not everyone is suffering though and silver lining like a few of the folks benefiting from this are not fat cat oil execs or bankers.

Bill, the owner of Blue Sky Bicycle on E185th Street here on the north coast told us business is booming. He’s selling 9-10 bikes a week and forgetting to close on Wednesdays as advertised. We biked over there yesterday, 26 miles round trip to talk about upgrading the wheels on my bike and to get some tuning done to Sara’s road bike (the latter actually squinted and winced when I brought it out into the sunlight from the garage where it had been hanging like a hibernating fruit bat– the bike not Sara, she has sunglasses.)

Bill’s a good guy – he takes time to talk with ya and he gives just as much attention to the person buying a new bike from him as to the kid whose water bottle bracket has fallen off the bike he bought at Wal-Mart. We discussed some option for new wheels for my road bike (god knows I can’t afford a new bike now) and had some adjustments made to Sara’s making it a bit more comfortable for her so maybe this one’ll get as much attention as her market bike now.

Speaking of attention.

It is amazing how stupid people driving cars can act when they encounter a bicyclist. Like some schoolyard bully held back three grades so they are bigger than everyone else on the playground - these Neanderthals wrapped in steel and glass act as if it is a personal affront that they have to share the road. So here are my top 5 examples of motorists acting like morons when coming upon a bicyclist:

1) Hooting, shouting, honking their horn in order to scare the feces out of the rider. What’s the point? You were able to frighten a person on a twenty five pound bicycle by making a loud noise from your two ton rolling pollution machine. Why not make a surprise appearance at a day care center dressed as a zombie?

2) Tailing a rider refusing to pass even though you have had a dozen opportunities. This one pisses me off big time. When being passed by a car I will hug the side of the road, muscles tense waiting waiting waiting - for the automobile to overtake me. I am existing in a proverbial second shoe to drop moment of suspense. Prolonging the passing just allows more time for something to go wrong – as soon as it’s safe, go around idiot.

3) And when you pass – give a little room. A foot or two will do – you don’t have to get all the way over in the other lane, that’s a bit insulting – like you expect me to topple over and slide with the speed of an air hockey puck in front of you. Even so, I guess taking the overly exaggerated swerve to avoid me is better than clipping me with your passenger side door mirror “Miss Sears Driving School Student Driver”. Likewise – if you pass a cyclist and are making a right hand turn – check that the cyclist is not right behind you. I’ve been run off the road a half dozen times by folks making right hand turns. I guess I could suggest that people use their turn signals then again I could also suggest that bush babies fly out my butt.

4) Any good cyclist will obey traffic signals (most of the time). I stop at traffic signals and can make rights on red too so leave a bit of room over there when you come to a stoplight when I am coming up behind you. I’ve seen many drivers pull as far over to the right as they can at traffic lights in order to keep that damn spandex wearing monkey from pulling even with them instead of taking his rightful position stuck directly behind a noxious exhaust pipe. I think you’re gonna beat me off the line Earnhardt, lighten up a bit. You may not know it but a lot of us riders out here are wearing shoes that actually attach to the pedals with spring loaded latches – this makes it a bit of a process for me to free my feet. That sudden swerve you just made to keep me from pulling up beside you could very well send me into a ditch.

5) Finally, relax. Share the road a bit. The thirty seconds added to your trip because of me out on my bike isn’t gonna make any difference. Hell the fact that I’m going to the store on my bike is having a positive effect supply and demand wise on the gas you’re pouring into your Hummer. Like Jackie Gleason said in The Hustler – “You owe me money!”

If the pickup in business over at Bill’s bike shop there on 185th is any indication – chances are you are going to be seeing a few more bikes on the road these coming months. Subsequently, a lot of these riders are going to be new – give ‘em a chance willya?

Oh yeah, don’t be surprised when, after she shouts from your open window trying to scare me as you pass, I catch up with you at the next light and squirt the rest of the contents of my sticky sports drink filled bottle all over your black lipsticked Goth wanna-be tart in the passenger seat of your Kia Rio.

What the hell was that?

Made a quick trip to Miami U of Ohio yesterday for a drive by gig with Sara.

We saw this on the way home halfway between Dayton and Columbus:

At first it was tough to see what it was - but whatever it was it was moving pretty quick - 80-85 mph and darting around traffic like a waterbug.

Once we got close enouigh I snapped a pic of our Mad Max impersonator with my cell phone.

And finally we left him behind as we pulled off to get some coffee!

Rock on...

Turkish De-Ice

Wherever you go then there you are – in this case we are in Monroe Michigan – home of General Custer, The La-Z-Boy recliner factory and of course, Monroe Shock Absorbers. Last night "A Musical Tribute to Johnny Cash" took place at the River Raisin Center for the Arts. Instead of sipping a hot latte in Amsterdam or eating fresh tabouli in Istanbul we have just finished a breakfast of reconstituted scrambled eggs sided with sausage gravy and biscuits at the Holiday Inn Express on I75. "But how did this happen? Last we heard they were boarding planes in Cleveland.

Well dear readers it was a cruel joke perpetrated on your hero. The airport was closed until 10am so there we were sitting in the Continental lounge waiting to hear what was going to happen next – then I saw a plane taxi past the window and they called for the Las Vegas passengers to board. Oh it was glorious! The tittering, the expectations ran 35.000 feet into the stratosphere – do you think we'll be called next? It's easier to take off than land – we just might get out of here. And then the friendly woman's voice came over the intercom system – all waiting passengers, report to your gates for boarding. Oh Kaloo Kalay we're going to Istanbul today!

Now Sara and I were on standby to Newark – we had called the night before to see what was up and decided to try and get on an earlier flight than the scheduled 12:30 one on which we had confirmed reservations. So there was no guarantee that we would even have seats – we were one and two on the list so all we needed were two folks to have given up driving to the airport in the blizzard and we were in. Welly welly well – happy time indeed, when we got to the gate two boarding passes with our names on them were waiting like obedient Labrador retrievers. We congratulated ourselves for being such savvy travelers.

We all shuffled onto the plan – everyone chatting expectantly – I can't believe they're boarding us - do you think we'll take off? As we sat watching the flight for Cancun pull away from the gate next to us the captain crackled across the speaker "Technically the airport is still closed we are just getting ready so that when it opens at 10 (it was now 9:45) we are out of here. Fifteen minutes later another announcement," We have been informed that the airport will remain closed until 10:30am" and then 15 minutes later we saw the Cancun flight pulling back into its gate and the final coffin nailed announcement "We are sorry ladies and gentlemen, the airport is closed for the rest of the day – no flights are leaving today, you may retrieve your checked luggage at the baggage carousel."

Oh crashing spirits, Mother Nature is a cruel mistress and she had just bitch slapped us across the head. I went down to pick up our bags and Sara worked on re-booking us. People's nerves were fraying a bit by now – the congenial chitter chatter was replaced by grunts and complaints, I steered clear as I waited for our bags which were going nowhere to return.

Sara came down to join me and told me she was successful in booking us on a plane the next day with one string attached – it left from Detroit. So after a series of train rides, a stop over at her daughter Katy's a ride back to the airport from her husband Doug (in the giant Ford 4x4 SUV that we have complained they spent to much money on in the past but never would have got where we were going without) we rented the quintessential old persons boat of a car – a Chevy Impala and we drove to Detroit in the blizzard of the decade!

Suffice it to say – it was a harrowing trip until we hit Toledo where the sun was shining. We stopped in at Tony Packos – had a fine dinner, there are a couple of left over stuffed cabbage rolls in our fridge here waiting 'til lunchtime for us – I challenge any of you to finish the Tony Packos feast menu item. I'll let the pics tell the story of our turnpike adventure.

So now we are a 20 minute drive from the Detroit Metro airport – where in 8 hours we are expecting to board a flight for Amsterdam and then onto Istanbul. Cross your fingers.

Zen what happened?

If I am going to live in a police sate – at least give me dancing girls

One thing I learned in Indonesia this time around was to smile. The indigenous folk may give you a wary eye walking down the street, but a quick flash of the pearly zoobies from you and the person instantaneously returns the gesture with gusto. The state of the teeth flashing back at you seems to come in only two varieties – glaringly white and straight as an arrow across (especially in Bali where tooth filing is practiced) or barely hanging in there like a row of stalactites that have been brushed against by too many oily hands of weekend spelunkers. But, nonetheless, a smile is echoed.

Try this in immigration hall at LAX international airport in Los Angeles and the response one gets ranges from quizzical to downright disdain. Almost three hours it took to pick up bags and exit customs. And this was without any kind of luggage search or anything out of what should have been ordinary – nope this was just plain good old American ineptness. Seems this batch of neo-cons is expert at outsourcing the TSA contracts to their cronies so that they can "run lean" amassing nice profits allowing them to jet privately around and avoid the insanity that is our first front against terrorism while the rest of us Joe Slobos sweat over missed connecting flights.

Similar to the inability of some to organize a two car parade – the crew at LAX was unable to create a couple of lines around the baggage carousels. Instead the influx of bags mixed with folks hoping to form some semblance of a procession leading somewhere, people cutting to get ahead into what they thought was a line only to be told by one blue jacketed lackey that this particular queue was not real. "But the person in the blue jacket over there sent us here…" Complete and utter confusion and I say this after experiencing rush hour in Jakarta.

Allow me to digress:

Traffic moves in Jakarta at a slow boil, like a pot of some spicy gumbo, bits and chunks of all the ingredients rolling over each other taking turns rubbing and gently careening about in the bubbling gelatinous broth. In order to merge one must simply and patiently insert one's automobile into this frothing olio of trucks, cars, busses, vans, three wheeled becaks all which are minimally separated by motor bikes flowing in between like water droplets coursing along the grout of steamy shower tiles. Lanes are nonexistent although in a rudimentary sense Indonesians do drive on the opposite side of the road than we in the states compounding the confusion of it all in my mind. Vehicles pack the road like a biology class video of red blood corpuscles microscopically filmed to fill the screen.

It is the utter lack of rhyme and reason that makes this non-system work. I saw no road rage – only folks determinedly moving across four imaginary lanes of bumper to bumper as carefully as one walks against the current of a stream flowing over algae covered slate – young men stepping into and stopping traffic like the sole soul in front of the tanks at Tiananmen and then collecting a nickel from a grateful driver backing into the commuter slurry – motorbikes taking to the sidewalk when four wheeled traffic wheezed to a congested standstill. Out of this unqualified chaos rose an almost Zen state of order, snatch the pebble grasshopper – become part of the current.

This is exactly what DIDN'T happen at LAX. For all the braying and mewing about American individuality we sure are enamored with rules as of late. The lack of clear cut instruction, neat median strips, and right turn lanes etc. etc. short circuited the vast majority of golf club toting, beer bellied middle managers and their parrot festooned straw hatted spouses. Pandemonium – but no underlining order to be found.

My stage asides of of "God bless the Republicans.", "Do you feel any safer?" and "Three cheers for privatization!" were met with blank stares of total unrecognition and unmitigated derision. "Who let Che in to ruin my vaction?", they were thinking.

These fleshy Coppertoned all inclusive resort denizens were clueless when faced with the task of merging eight squid like tentacles of meandering baggage carts into one lane.

So everything stopped.

I coached a sister duet of middle aged Latinas in front of me to just calmly continue moving in the general direction of the exit, forget about the folks you think are cutting in front of you in line (mostly southeast Asians who undoubtedly figured everything was moving along swell) and just go with the flow. I talked them down convinced them that is was okay to move within the imaginary twelve inch barrier they wanted as a comfort zone explaining that the gap was an invitation for merging from the flanks. Eventually, we got out handing our declaration slips to the customs agent, "No I do not have a rabid squirrel monkey in my duffel bag" and the two senoras thanked me as if I had just guided them through an infra red laser protected vault to the best shoe sale of their lives.

Welcome home I thought, please form an orderly line to the left.