Namaste, Dudes II!

Ain't Yoga Grand?

Namaste, dudes!

I've been practicing yoga for about a year now which means in yoga parlance I've being going to my mat for about a year.

I'm taking yoga in an attempt to stem the tide of scoliosis which has rendered my spine so curvy it looks like the piping under your kitchen sink. All that's missing is a garbage disposal.

What do I do when I go to my mat besides chant Ommmm?  

Here's three poses I'll pose foryou:

Child's Pose - One look at this pose and you know it was developed at a time when not only were children supposed to be seen but not heard, they were also expected to get dinner by licking up crumbs in the carpet fibers. Provides a nice stretch though.
 
Downward Facing Dog - With your butt high aloft in the shape of a "V," you emulate a position dogs often assume. If your dog tends to emulate you, assume you'll have puppies 3-5 times per year.

Warrior I and II- Powerful  and dynamic, this pose is labeled I or II depending upon whether the left or right side leads. But I don't know about a pose called "Warrior" for a Jewish guy from the suburbs. Maybe call them Attorney I and II?

Although yoga may or may not ultimately address the deconstruction of my spine, I do often feel like I stand up straighter and more confidently after going to the mat than before.

 One day leaving yoga I was feeling as erect as any man since HomoErectus first stood erect, so I stopped into a neighboring watering hole. There I spied an attractive woman in my general demographic, meaning a woman on the far side of 50 and the low side of Cloris Leachman. 

Having just been to my mat, I decided to go to the mat.

“Hi, okay to sit here?'" I asked. "My name is Perry."

"Sure, I'm Cheryl, nice to meet you," she replied brightly.

And it seemed then that the combined and collected wisdom and enlightenment of the mystical East were gently whispering into my ear:

“You may have a shot here, Perry.  Don’t blow it!”

"Do you know, Perry, that you have nice blue eyes," said Cheryl.

 Hmm. Must be the Warrior I. Or the Warrior II.

"Know what else?  Nice long eyelashes."

Then wait ‘til you see my Downward Facing Dog!  

"You do seem like a nice guy." 

Okay, Perry, let’s go to the mat about going to my mat!

"Too bad you’ve got the worst posture I’ve seen since Quasimodo! Maybe you should try Pilates?”

Ommmmmmmm … Shit! 

"Bye now, Perry.  Hope you can take care of your problem.”

“Bye.”

 I guess I'll go too.

Go home, go to my mat, and practice Attorney 1 and 2.

Namaste, dudes!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

There was a Crooked Man and the RNC

"Hello, is this the Republican National Committee?" 

"Yes, this is the RNC. How can I help you?"

"Yes, well, my name is Perry Block.  I'm a life-long Democrat but I have a proposition that could help the RNC."

"Why would a Democrat want to help the RNC?"

"It's really for our country."

"Our country doesn't need any help from Democrats!  You’re all obstructionists who would vote against tax cuts for even the neediest millionaire.”

“Let me tell you what I’m offering.”

“Okay. Shoot!  Which is a right the Dems would take away from us if not for the Second Amendment written by Jesus.”

“I’m offering the Republican Party my spine.”

“Why?”

“Because Republicans have no spine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You stand in servile supplication to a duplicitous ignorant lout who is destroying our country and probably selling it out to the Russians.”

“All you Dems ever want to talk about is Russia! What about President Trump’s broad-shouldered leadership?  He could carry two or three broads on his shoulders no sweat!”

“All you do is regurgitate Republican talking points! Look, I'm offering Republicans my spine, flawed as it may be.”

“What do you mean it’s flawed?”

“I have kind of a crooked spine. I'm sort of like Richard III except instead of being a king of England and subject of a Shakespeare play I'm an overage Jewish guy from a dinky town in Pennsylvania."

"If it's flawed, why are you offering it?"

“It’s gotta be better than no spine!

"We're doing fine just as we are. Did you know grabbing pussy supplies the daily requirement of eight essential vitamins and minerals?”

"It's hopeless. Look I'm sorry I called." 

"Thank you for calling the RNC.  One thing I did want to ask.”

"Yes?"

"What's a spine?"

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There was a Crooked Man & Other Ailments of Boomer Life

Last week I sat down and made a list of all my current health challenges.

Sexual dysfunction didn't even crack the Top Ten.

The health issues we Boomers face as we age are nature’s way of telling us it's a little late to do Europe on a motorcycle. What constitutes an exciting summer now is being able to say to your neighbor "look how good the hydrangeas came in this year!" 

Would you like to compare my list with yours?

There was a Crooked Man

My back was recently voted the East Coast's Answer to  Lombard Street in San Francisco.  The only difference between my back and Lombard Street - the crookedest street in America - is pedestrian foot traffic.

I went to see my orthopedic doctor Dr. Simpkin and asked him if it was possible to straighten my back.  Dr. Simpkin thanked me for the laugh.

"Straighten your spine?  So you can have excellent posture in your coffin?"

Got to love a doc with bedside manner.

Something Inside Starts Burning

That something inside is reflux, which catapults my esophagus into the state of global warming our descendants are expected to experience in the years Star Trek is supposed to take place.

With medicines known as proton pump inhibitors, I can out eat Anthony Bourdain on his best day in his most exotic land.

But should I forget to take them, it's the Great Chicago Fire all over again and even Spiderman can't save my thoracic cavity.

Vitiligo Whoah-Oh 

No, Vitiligo is not a hit song by the late Dean Martin. It is a hit to the skin by a disease that turns it to a blotchy white.

And no, Blotchy White is not a Catskill comic, but an apt descriptor for my hands, arms, and neck. 

That's just what this liberal needed: a disease to make me look more white. 

I've Looked at Clouds from Both Sides Now

I've looked at floaters from both sides now, and frankly I don't like either side.

Floaters are "inkspots" floating like dark clouds in front of my eyes. If I look quickly out of the left side of my eye, it looks like the Grim Reaper is sneaking up on me. 

Which he is.  I sure hope the floaters float away before I do.   

My Analyst Told Me That I Was Right Out of My Head - Don't ask. 


And that's what life is like for this Boomer these days, with help from Joni Mitchell, Linda Ronstadt, and Dean Martin.

How about you, fellow Boomer? What's on your list?

What's that?  

You're doing Europe on a motorcycle this summer? 

Well, wait til you see my hydrangeas!

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Doctor My Eyes

There I was on another typical day, typing another typical blog post that no one ever typically reads when out of the corner of my left eye I caught sight of something decidedly atypical, something decidedly moving!

It appeared dark black, the size of a quarter, and was scampering rapidly all about the left side of me.  I realized that it was either a fly, a runaway proton, or a spider, and although I'm fine with the first two options, the prospect of the third caused me to give forth a high-pitched sound in the approximate nature of:

"AHHHHHHHHH!!!"

as I flayed wildly about with a rolled up newspaper, calling out "Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" 

You see, I really hate spiders. They are proof positive that there is either no God or the one we've got should have been forcibly bound and gagged before he finished the finer points of Creation.

But after routing about  a bit I discovered there was nothing there.  An optical illusion perhaps? A stain on my contact lens, to go along with the one on my character? Had the object vanished into a parallel universe, one in which I hopefully own better property?

I returned to typing, but before long so did the menacing dark moving object to my left.  And so did the high-pitched sound in the approximate nature of:

"AHHHHHHHHH!!!"

But after two or three more near pseudo arachnid-induced heart attacks, I finally began to catch on.  There was no spider, there was no fly, there was no errant proton anywhere to be seen. The dark black object was rather in my eye itself.  

This then would be a job for my eye doctor, Dr. Mervin Vertbaum.

"Better this way, Perry, or better this way?" asked Dr. Vertbaum. 

"What does that have to do with the dark spot in my eye, Doctor?" I asked.

"Nothing. We're required to say that by law."

"Oh, I see. But what do I have?"

"You have a floater,  a deposit within the eye's viteous humor."

"But I thought all floaters were small, kind of like Donald Trump's hands."

"No, they can be quite large as well. Yours is the size of a Buick, albeit one of their sportier models."

"Well, how long will it take until it goes away?"

"Oh, it doesn't go away, Perry. You'll have it for life."

Have it for life? It's amazing how casually doctors tell older people they'll have something for life assuming we're totally fine with that since life's not such a long term proposition anymore anyway!

"But ... but it's very annoying, Doctor."

"Oh, you'll get used to it, Perry.  That is, assuming the floater doesn't scatter into hundreds of multiple pieces in which case it will look like you're perpetually traveling through the Milky Way."

"What?!  Well, there must be some fix for that!"

"Oh, sure, there it."

"Thank goodness! What is it?"

"Keep your eyes shut, for God's sakes!"  

And so, let's add eye floaters to my current list of life maladies, which includes a spine shaped like the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, shrinkage in physical stature certain to one day surely render me the limbo champion of Havertown PA, and white blotches on my arms, face, and hands providing me the tony appearance as though someone were trying to bleach me and just ran out of clorox.

Well, at least the floater isn't really a spider.  Actually it's starting to look something more like a musical note dancing in front of my eyes the way musical notes sometime appear on screen in a movie to show that the protagonist composer is experiencing great inspiration.

So that's it. I'm to spend the rest of my life watching Amadeus.

"AHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Sanctuary!  Sanctuary!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Namaste, Dudes!

Ain't Yoga Grand? 

Namaste, dudes!

I have begun the ancient and honored practice of yoga.

Do I aspire to one day attain enlightenment and the transcendent state of being at one with the universe? 

Nah. 

I’m taking yoga because I have a spine that’s shaped like the maze in a game called Help Explorer Sam Find his Way to the Magic Talisman of Bloth. So I wended my way to Yoga Pagoda - which likely requires less wending than wending my way to the Talisman of Bloth - and signed up.

Yoga Pagoda possesses an ethereal incense and Eastern music suffused atmosphere that reminded me pleasantly of the 60's, which unfortunately also reminded me that the only 60's I’m dealing with anymore are the ones that feature Medicare in the middle.

Scheduled for Gentle Yoga, which is  something like Yoga-with-Training-Wheels, I was instructed to "take a mat, a blanket, and two blocks," and go to the room in the back, which made me feel comfortable. With a mat, blocks, and a blanket in hand, could milk and cookies be far behind?  

In the back room there were about twenty people busily unfurling mats and getting ready for the class, mostly young to middle-aged women and a sprinkling of men, amongst all of whom I was probably the oldest one there.

That's right.

The oldest one there.

Not a particularly transcendent enlightenment to begin the epic journey to becoming one with the universe. 

Or even to getting on a first name basis with it.

The leader of the group, an attractive young woman in absolutely terrific shape, began leading us though the assumption of various body positions called poses.  

Some are simple like the Tabletop Pose, in which you get on hands and knees and form a table top with your back and a waiter comes along and sets the table and welcomes two guests who order Chablis and Veal Picante. This last part didn't actually happen but I assume it does in the more advanced classes.

There are many other poses like Child’s Pose, Downward Facing Dog Pose, and Fuck-Over Perry Pose.  I don’t believe this is the official name of that last pose but by class’ end all but the kindest of my yoga mates had readily adopted it as such.

Our practice concluded with a relaxed meditative state in which all of us join in chanting "Ommmmmmmm."  If this particular chant is to help me achieve a relaxed meditative state, I’ll need a string of "m"s hard to find anywhere outside an explosion at an M & M's Factory.

Hopefully yoga will prevent my back from morphing into a Philadelphia soft pretzel and keep me tall enough so I can at least go on almost any ride I choose at Disneyworld.

And should I also get myself on a first name basis with the universe, well, it’s always good to make a new friend.

Namaste, dudes!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brace Yourself, Perry!

 This is the brace I wear.
Otherwise, that ain't me.

As those of you who regularly read this column are well aware, there is virtually no one who regularly reads this column. But if such a person did exist, he or she would invariably be familiar with the fact that for the last several years:

I've Been Melting!

That is, I'm shrinking away before your very eyes.  Where I was once five foot ten, not tall enough for the NBA but tall enough to reach everything in the cabinets atop the refrigerator, now to reach over top of the freezer is tantamount to reaching the summit of Everest. 

Both Daniel Radcliffe and Kevin Hart call me "shrimp-ass."

The culprit is scoliosis, the condition that renders my spine a human-scale replica of Lombard Street in San Francisco.  And though scoliosis is not reversible,  Dr. Kropotkin has prescribed a back brace to help me stand up straighter and provide a much-needed boost to my posture and self-esteem.

I had hoped the back brace would be undetectable when worn under clothing, but unfortunately it produces a sizable bulge in the back. The net effect is that I look like a hunchback with very good posture.  So it was with trepidation and uncertainty that I, bound-up in my bulging back brace, ventured forth into the world for the first time. 

In the Wawa convenience store, my first stop, I felt that all eyes were upon me, generally at a rate of two per person.

"What happened, fella?" asked a 20-ish guy. 

"I have scoliosis. You know, curvature of the spine."

"That's tough, friend.  Must hurt bad. Here let me get you some coffee!"

Well, free stuff!  That's not so bad. Even though the scoliosis really doesn't hurt, it seemed the brace served as a conversation piece that had its inherent benefits.

A bit later, I was in a deli.

"Are you in much pain, sir?" asked a woman older than I am, if such even exists anymore.

Why not up the ante a bit, I thought?  Let's see what kind of prize in the Cracker Jack box I can wangle out of this one.

"It only hurts when I laugh," I replied, "which the doctor has ordered me to discontinue doing."

"Poor dear!" she said. "Would you like a corned beef sandwich?"

I sure would! I wouldn't have minded some coleslaw and Russian dressing too.

"What happened to you, mister?" asked an eight year old boy when I was food shopping several hours later.

I wasn't going to get much out of the little tyke, I realized, but let's practice taking it to the next level anyway. 

"It's a very painful football injury, son.  Years ago when I was quarterback for my college team I was running into the end zone for the game winning touchdown when I was flattened by a 350 pound linebacker."

"Don't bother the nice man, Johnny," came a nearby voice emanating from a quite attractive middle-aged woman.   

"He was a football hero, Mom-Mom," said Little Johnny.

"Oh, really!" replied the woman. "My ex-husband played football too." 

"Is that so?" I said, adjusting the brace. "I wonder if he ... OOOHHH!" 

"Oh, sorry you hurt so bad!" said Mom-Mom empathetically. "Maybe after I drop Johnny off at his mom's you and I can have some coffee and get acquainted?"

Well, what do you know? The back brace is helping me after all.

Too bad it isn't doing anything for my back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you liked this post, you might also like I'm Melting!,  Vitilago Whoah-oh!, and The Incredible Shrinking Jew. If you hated this post, I hope you begin dating the woman wearing the back brace above,

and it turns out the brace doubles as a chastity belt!

I'm Melting!

Don't want to say I'm shorter than I was, 

but I did enjoy this reunion with an old girl friend.

Contrary to popular belief, Scoliosis is not the general who stood up to Caesar as he crossed the Rubicon, but a condition I've had most of my life, more commonly known as curvature of the spine.

For the most part my scoliosis never bothered me. It wasn't painful, didn't hinder my posture, and didn’t interfere with my love life any more than any of the other messed up things about my existence on Earth have interfered with my love life. But as I’ve aged something has changed.

I'm melting!

That is, I'm getting shorter. A lot shorter.

It began eight years ago when people started telling me to stand up straight. 

"I am standing up straight!" I would protest.

"I don't know," they’d respond, "but I don't think standing up straight involves your chin getting up close and personal with your belt buckle.”

Then I began to hear something even more disturbing.

"Perry, are you getting shorter?" people would ask. "Because I’ve been noticing you're no higher than my coffee table."

Though I hoped they owned a coffee table so tall that LeBron James would bump his head on it, I suspected that this was not the case. So I finally went to see Dr. Simpkin, the orthopedist.

The office assistant took my height and weight.

"Five foot seven," she announced.

"Five foot seven!  Wait a minute. I’m supposed to be five ten!"

"Actually it's closer to five six."

Stunned, I entered Dr. Simpkin's office.

"As the scoliosis progresses and your spine curves like the Indianapolis Speedway, your posture will get worse and you will get way shorter," he said  casually.

If he was trying to ruin my weekend, there’s no question that he succeeded. 

"Let's have a look at your back,” he said.  I pulled off my shirt.

"Extreme!" he exclaimed.

  

The good doctor sent me off to Tiffany, the physical therapist. "May I check the curvature of your spine?" she asked.

I nodded. She ran her hand down my back.

"Extreme!" shouted Tiffany.

Apparently my spinal column has been designed by Zorro.

After Tiffany calmed down, she recommended physical therapy and yoga.

I have also developed a few techniques of my own. I imagine I’m walking with a book on my head, imagine I'm reading the book if it’s about posture, and practice my own patented Jack Benny walk.

None of this will straighten my backbone nor make me taller, but they may halt or at least slow the condition’s progression.

So I will do it all religiously because I do not want a back shaped like the world’s largest question mark and I don’t look forward to the day when pint-sized comedian Kevin Hart starts calling me "squirt."

I’m not going down - in size - without a fight!

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