A Serious Case of Premature Bonging

Simply lovely. 

Except when there's premature bonging!

I tend to be late sometimes.

Oh, let’s be honest. I’m chronically, perpetually, pathologically late almost all the time since I was 5.

But even when I'm not late for yoga at 12:00 P.M. three days a week, there’s a sound that fills the air that fills me with dread that I'am late and about to get yelled at. Of course everyone’s mellow at yoga and nobody has yelled yet, but there’s always a first time.

That sound is church bells bonging from a nearby church that bong two minutes before the hour.

It's a serious case of premature bonging!  

I know. Premature bonging sounds dirty. But that's the official term.

Not only does premature bonging terrify me that I’m at late for yoga, it probably terrifies everyone for miles around that they’re late wherever they’re headed as well. 

So I went to see Reverend Trumble, top guy at the church in question to complain. I think “top guy at the church” might not be his official title.

“Reverend Trumble,” I said, “I want to talk to you about a case of premature bonging.”

“Premature bonging, Mr. Block? That sounds dirty.”

“That’s exactly what I thought! I hesitated to say that to you because as a man of God, I thought you might banish me to - you know - hell.”

“No, I generally don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”

“Things really have liberalized with you guys lately, haven’t they?”

“Tell me about the premature bonging.”

"Your bell tower bongs routinely at two minutes before the hour. It makes me feel like I’m late for yoga and I panic and desperately start to think of excuses for being late.”

“Seems to me it serves as a worthwhile notice to you that you’ve got to hurry to get to yoga.”

“If it bonged a half hour in advance it would! That would tell me to turn off Let's Make a Deal, grab my yoga pants, and get out of the house! At two minutes to the hour all it does is give me a shrek!”

“I know the term. All right, Mr. Block, we’ll adjust the premature bong to a timely bong if you'll do one thing.”

"What's that?"

"Be a little early from now on. For everything."

"Right! I've been meaning to do that ever since I was 37."

"Good deal."

“Thank you for handling the problem, Reverend! Thank Jesus too.”

“I don’t think Jesus had much to do with the premature bonging, Mr. Block.”

“Y’know, I didn’t think he did either.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it sounds dirty.”

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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!

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

 

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!

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