Brooklyn Dj, j.viewz, attaches wires to fruits and vegetables and recreates Massive Attack’s Teardrop through their frequencies.
See and hear the setup or skip to 2:22, where it gets real.
Brooklyn Dj, j.viewz, attaches wires to fruits and vegetables and recreates Massive Attack’s Teardrop through their frequencies.
See and hear the setup or skip to 2:22, where it gets real.
(This article was published on YOGANONYMOUS, 2/27/13.)
That hair-splitting minx, Miss Popular Culture has decided that yoga pants are not legitimate pants.
Blissful with ignorance, I have schlepped from studio to coffee haus to home in ain’tpants, fauxpants and nopants.
If you’ve got beef with yoga pants, you’ve got beef with yogis. You can clutch your pearls and give us the side-eye all you want. We’ve got our thighs on the prize and will cling to these almostpants until our last ujjayi breath.
Not familiar with the war on britches? Here’s what doodes on the worldwide web preach about questionable bottoms:
“Don’t be a slut.” Don’t be a jerkstore.
“Leggings wearers sh!t me to tears.” Okay, that one is funny. I luh me some hyperbole.
“Become a fan if you HATE when ppl wear leggings as pants.” Exuberant as this invitation is, all caps are also not pants.
“So i was in class today and this girl walked in with brown leggings, as pants of course, and i could see her thick-seamed, white panties with pink polka dots through them.” This kind of inspection reveals that you’re a pervertosaurus and your mom should smack your punk ass.
Does it disturb you that there are creepers out there who might sneak up on your innocent hindquarters and put the invasive results up for comment in public? It should.
I pity the fool who would try to slink into my blind spot for a photo opportunity. Yogis are strong-legged. But, ahimsa (do not harm), forevah.
People who think yoga pants are not real pants are the same people who think expresso is espresso. There is no ‘x’ in the Italian alphabet and there are no real pants in my closet.
Let’s put a fine point on it; I’m a yoga teacher, so if yoga pants aren’t pants, I only make money when I’m pantsless. Everything seems to be in order here.
Over yonder, at lululemon, customers have coined their own acronyms to cover their asses. VPL= visible panty line, DDC= down dog check.
Opacity is key for us yoga bunnies. We’ve got this down. No need for unsolicited opinions in our pantaloons. Women do not have to take this ish.
Does it offend your sensibilities when leggings masquerade as pants? Like my girl Stevie Nicks said,“You can go your own way.”
There’s a threadbare line between fashion policing and slut-shaming. Is there an outcry over men who wear Zubaz (and Speedos) to vinyasa flow? Nyet. There shouldn’t be. If some gentle soul shows up to my yoga class in Zubaz, I will salute them. To wear Zubaz is to have courage.
Yogis tend to cherish comfort over formality, on and off the mat. We’re too busy practicing astavakrasana (all eight angles of it, motherhugger) in our leggings that do not qualify as pants to iron slacks.
The fact that Ganesh, Allah, the Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother Earth and Almighty Gawd gave us these yoga pants is proof that they want us to be comfortable. We must enjoy this bounty and coexist in bum-cuppin’ coziness and harmony.
Go ahead honey, declare yourself Huntress of Nearlypants. Own them.
Sure as the moon waxes gibbous, I’ll be over here, rolling with my omies, sportingnopantsarethebestpants.
ps: Liza Minnelli rocks nothing but hardlypants and she’s a goddamn legend.
Bottom photo: officiallizaminnelli.com
She strolled in through the speakeasy door with her Texan teaching partner, Tyler Mccoy. He walks on fire in his spare time and introduced Sadie to her favorite guilty pleasure jam, ‘Enter the Ninja.’
I planned to give you, yoga scholar, a review of their class. However, halfway through the evening, Tyler gave me a gentle neck traction assist in a forward fold that tingled my brain. I wasn’t tryna be won over.
What’s more, in savasana, Sadie rocked my metacarpals (palm bones) and massaged my fingers in a way that would make Edward Scissorhands weep with jealousy.
Every yogi in the room received attention. How’s a woman to be objective in that situation? I melted.
Surely the founder of Core Strength Vinyasa will force me do crunches and pant for mercy, I thought. Mais, non. She and Tyler led us yogis through a pure, sensual vinyasa and urged us to move like seaweed.
We cut through the steam with fists of fire and kriyas: vocal bursts paired with movement. Kind of like, “Hi-yah!” Satisfaction. It felt freaky.
Here’s what went down when Sadie sat down for a beer with YOGANONYMOUS.
Hally Marlino: You’re from Iowa. Are there any core Midwestern values that help you build muscle and flourish in the yoga world?
Sadie Nardini: Absolutely. Being from the Midwest, we’re from the ground up, street level. We want clarity, no bullshit. We’re earthy, and if we have magic, that’s fine too, but I want to be here, standing present with you. Don’t go up in the esoteric atmosphere with me. Where I’m from, the earth is black. It’s foundational and spacious. I’m an Iowa girl. I say what I mean. I carry a rootedness with me that’s all Midwest.
HM: There’s buzz about your new ‘do in the yogasphere. Last year, you were an urban milkmaid with the bangs and tendrils. Now I see a steampunk ballerina; skater hair, metal necklace, puffy sleeves. You changed in a hot minute. Is there a story behind the transformation?
SN: Tyler and I were in Mexico together, and I saw someone wearing this hair. I said, “That’s my hair and I need it back.” We rode our bikes to the grocery store and bought clippers. Then we went to the cabana, drank *mezcal, smoked a Cuban cigar and shaved my head. We’re the real world yoga couple, if you will. Being in the world and also not of it. The only way to roll.
HM: How can a yoga teacher get some respect? Can we buck the new age stereotype, earn a solid income and run a legitimate business? At what point will friends and family forget to ask us if we have a day job?
SN: I have my own LLC that’s worth half a million dollars a year. I respect myself. To fellow yoga teachers, I’d say, we are kind of gypsies by nature and I don’t expect the corporate world to understand that. There’s always a way to get what you want. I run a similar business model to someone in a three piece suit. I didn’t start out with money or huge resources. I didn’t start out with fifty students in a class, I started with two. I want to share and help students grow. Yeah, I was on my own for awhile, but there have been angels who showed up along way to help me. So, have the courage to get out of your own way. Don’t give a sh!t what other people think. Create your own life.
*Note: Today I learned that mezcal (agave liquor) is not the same as mescaline (a psychedelic substance).
(This article was published on YOGANONYMOUS, 3/11/23.)
Coffee in hand Friday morning, I opened my laptop. My little daughter sat beside me, her golden head on my shoulder. We settled in to watch Dora, since Elmo has forsaken us.
On my newsfeed, I saw a big photo of my army buddy from boot camp. She’s home on leave from the Mid-East, enjoying time with her little boy. They posed in the South Carolina sun, smiling, wrapped up in each other. The next photo I saw showed a teacher, leading a dozen small children away from a school, past a bank of police cars. My girl had moved on to blowing bubbles in front of the tv and I dug in to the news, filling up with dread.
I chugged too much coffee and read about the Connecticut school shooting, hoping the death toll numbers would go down by the hour. They went up.
I didn’t hug my kids any harder that night than usual. They’re not here to comfort me. It isn’t their job to stand in for lost souls and tolerate awkward extra squeezing. They deserve to feel the heartbeat of a routine Friday night at home with mom and dad, dinner steaming up the kitchen, and the x-mas tree blinking in the corner.
With that said; good, better, best parenting has been an afterthought these past few days. My son has been allowed all the video games and candy he can smuggle. Friday, my husband slept on baby girl’s floor next to her crib. Guess who is year of the tiger born in that pairing?
Friday, I was grossed out by yoga people posting red alerts about their weekend classes, bitches trying to sell me makeup on FB and some fool sharing pics of her new boots. Bad form. And the photos of your dog/cat/jewels/dinner- no one cares. Really? Already? No. You are mistaken. The day of a mass act of violence is precisely the day you should not tell the U.S. of A. about your stupid vacation. Of course, I closed my screen, but it all flooded over to my phone.
In fairness, slumping over the kitchen counter with the NPR live stream ear-budded to my brain didn’t solve any problems. I wanted to hear the why and the how. We’re all still waiting. Death has patience in spades. Keep waiting for Godot. We saw our president, our legislative father hold a candle up to offer comfort with through his own wet eyes. I reckon Barack would like to see an assault weapons ban passed, but when will he say it?
Remember when another child, Trayvon Martin, was shot by a gun and the prez said, “If I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon.”? We mourn those children who were taken in CT because they looked like our own. They were ours. If that is so, the shooter was also our child. We have ownership in the current firearms culture. We vote and spend our policies, then cash them in like scratch tickets for more-the cheap ones next to the Slim Jims.
How about hugging your nearest NRA member extra tight tonight? Can you disarm them? Eighty-six the ‘I feel’ language. Maybe your favorite concealed carry advocate needs to read twenty too many obituaries tonight. I give nonefucks for your second amendment sniffles. If I don’t need a gun, why do you? What sore on your ego hurts so bad that you feel safer armed? You so special?
The minute I hear some white guy (they are the ones who whine most loudly) fuss over his right to bear arms, I know he is weak. You simply must have a gun? Some xenophobic bone in your body needs shushing. Find another way. Did the shooter’s mother’s weapons protect her? No. If you are so hot to protect the sanctity of life and constitutional rights, join The Innocence Project. No license required.
Sure, I think you have a right to legally rifle-snipe a deer and make venison steak. No one really wants to take away your registration to capture and cream sauce a pheasant.
When I see a photo of a gun, I imagine how a bullet would feel going through my body. I don’t see a means for protection.
During Army Basic Combat Training, I spent plenty of time belly down in range dirt. All summer, puffed up southern boys to the left and right of me were smoked by black female drill sergeants each time they called their weapon a gun, failed to clean it properly or joked about picking off terrorists. The (mostly white) male D.S. reps watched, fence-leaned and spit sunflower seeds. Civilian guys like that are the only ones I’ve known who are flaming hot for their second amendment rights. I formed my stereotypes of the United States’ selfish gun culture amid those nutshells. I can’t un-see or un-hear those days.
What comes next? Do we, the unqualified, diagnose the shooter with mental illness? A dozen of my ‘friends’ posted that fake Morgan Freeman media scolding. Perhaps they did it to assure folks that they were appropriately sickened. An hour later some resumed photographing their drunk duck faces and commenting on dachshund rescue videos. I need to re-evaluate some relationships.
President Obama’s speech tonight from the Newtown interfaith vigil was beautiful, but full of fantasy and supernatural rhetoric. God? Heaven? What kind of god ?
I voted for the guy and I’m behind him, but I don’t need to hear fairy tales about Jesus. I’d like elected leaders to govern by reason. Not faith. Science, legislation, health care, economics and politics are all subjects I love hearing the president discuss. Full disclosure: I’m not purely Atheist, but I like the way they think. I can try to understand anyone on the faith and free-thinking spectrum, but don’t want the government involved in my beliefs or whitewashing a tragedy with supernatural biblical ideas. I’m patriotic like that.
We can comfort each other and problem solve without holy rolling.
It is possible to have a spiritual, loving conversation without assigning it to the Pope’s Jesus. Yes, the same Pope who found time on Sunday to bash gay marriage. ‘Tis the season.
We mourn as a nation, but our beliefs divide us.
Last night, I went to the mall to buy snow boots and I couldn’t focus. I wandered in and out of stores, trying things on and not spending any money. I saw parents with sweet little children at a place where you can buy candy canes, mittens and guns. I left empty-handed and drove home, thinking of the expired bottle of Prozac stashed in my glovebox.
I have no answers or shiny quotes, here in frozen Wisco.
Before tying on your sexy Yes, Chef apron to bake up a storm, check the dates on your spices. If you find some that are expired, don’t despair. You can use them to make homemade potpourri. Forget the commercial bagged stuff spiked with faux scents and yellow number five. Follow the recipe below for a soft and inviting wintry mix that’s sure to please your Jack Frost-bitten nose. Bubble it up on your stove while you fix a mug of cocoa for your sweetheart. Your crib will smell like fresh hot cross buns.
In the interest of health, I’d like to add that pumpkin-spice flavor and apple-cinnamon flavor are not actual fruits. Do not be fooled by slick packaging and promises of festive contentment.
Spicy Bootleg Potpourri
2 cups water
1 T. whole cloves
3 cinnamon sticks
1 whole nutmeg or 1 t. ground nutmeg
1/4 cup orange peels, finely sliced and dried
Simmer all ingredients in a medium pan. Add additional water and spices when needed. Behold, the marvelous aroma. Set range to low or remove from heat.
If you’d like to reuse the mixture of holiday aroma surprise, cool it, jar it and refrigerate. Reheat as often as you like for up to two weeks.
Prepare for the smellgoods, you smart cookie, you.
If you have a stuffy nose, but your ears are in proper working order, you may enjoy my latest article on YOGANONYMOUS: Hot Buttered Mixtape from Your Kapha Yoga Teacher
Hear Bruce Springsteen sing, “In My Hometown.” Y’know, hear it in your mind.
The Boss didn’t pluck that tune out when he played Madison one hot minute before our hero Barack Obama won re-election. It just stuck in my head driving three hours northeast to, you guessed it, my hometown. It’s on the icy edge of Lake Michigan, about an hour past the city of Green Bay.
Imagine a cold wonder of a place where you may buy beer until 2 a.m. I know that’s enough to entice you to say yah to da U.P., eh, but there’s more. It’s a museum of natural mystery.
My family of four stayed with our Aunt Gee. Her house meets your nose like baby powder, cedar and Dove Soap. It smells just like my Grandma’s (rest her soul) makeup drawer. I love the aroma. Le husband says, “There are cats everywhere and you’re afraid to step on them, but you don’t know which ones are real.” The top floor of her home is filled with guest bedrooms and exotic plants, if you know what I mean. I’m talking flowering banana trees.
We drove across town, to pick up Aunt Dee for yoga. She showed us a five pound mincemeat pie, boozy and fragrant with bacon. Be still my vegan heart. Well, not really. I’m the most half-assed vegetarian on the block, especially when it comes to family recipes. After a spoonful of pie, I washed my hands and she handed me the most cushy towel I’ve ever known. I buy the ones that are a couple dollars and scratchy.
As a hen trio, we gave yoga a run for its money and headed to the homestead for Uno with the dudes. We shared Fatty Boombalatty Belgian pints and the loudest wisecracks on the block. A baker’s dozen of Mickey-Lu cheeseburgers were sacrificed that night in the name of buying local. No dilemma for this omnivore. I’ll return to the plant-based fold just in time for x-mas.
My son and I stole away for a midnight cruise in our slippers. You can go to the grocery store in my hometown bun-headed & slipper-shod and no one will judge you. Madison is cool like that too. I don’t want to live anywhere with a stiffer dress code. In keeping with festive tradition, there were cops parked on every corner. Not a soul on foot. I wager the municipality made little money on traffic tickets that night.
We watched The Walking Dead and turned in. The lighting of the prison on that show reminds me of my old Catholic church. I remember sitting involuntarily around the basement for catechism. I’d try my luck jousting zombies rather than spend one more Sunday in that church of fire and brimstone.
In my aunt’s house, the beds are are always squarely made. She fluffs the pillowcases; sharp yellow softness, feather full of every dream you left since last time. Lay your head down, it all comes back to you.
No one talked about bullsh!t mindfulness, said we should write gratitude haikus, or told me to set an intention. But I kinda wished there were an espresso drive-through within, oh a hundred miles. Surely I’m going straight to hell for that.
People stick voodoo positivity pins in the social mediasphere all day long. See “If you want to feel rich, just count all the gifts you have that money can’t buy.” That’s downright whimsical, but I’d rather get a raise. Mama’s got bills to pay, kids to keep warm and the corner store only accepts real greenbacks for gasoline. The warm-fuzzy feelings usually come after basic needs are met. Not trying to be a Scrooge.
I have a face-friend who slaps Einstein, Marianne Williamson and Gandhi quotes on the newsfeed every morning. Rarely, she puts quotation marks around them, and she never credits the original source of the quote. Yeah, I’m sure she came up with, There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, ‘Consume me.’ No. That was Virginia Woolf.
The staggering amount of white people posting stuff they’re thankful for is what gets me. Can we take a hint from Usher (Usher, Usher, Usher, Usher)? Don’t talk about it, be about it. I know that’s more sage advice, but cowboy, if it ain’t broke…
I want someone to explain how to live up to the meme. So your mantra is, “Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes.” I like it. It’s got cheap feel-good appeal. Still, please stop. Who are you speaking for? Yourself? Someone in need? That’s what I want to know. Spare me the McQuotes. Or at least put a creepy photo behind the text. I like creepy photos. Pretty ones are so easy to come by.
For fun, you can upload any photo to picmonkey.com, meme-ify to your heart’s desire, save and share it, all for free. No registration required, unlike the also popular quickmeme.com and memegenerator.net.
Who cut the cheese between Oms? Probably someone who posts word-pukelets on Facebook like, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Just, no. What doesn’t kill you sends you to therapy. What doesn’t kill me maims me. Didn’t Kelly Clarkson write a song about it? She also endorsed Ron Paul for president. She’s no golden font of wisdom.
Nor am I, because this one I dig:
Fourth Thursday of November, thank you for words like barley, rendered, hay mow, brethren, pastured fowl, taco dip, and ratios of a horse a piece and half butter, half potatoes.
This article was published on YOGANONYMOUS 11/20/12.
By Hally Marlino
A trip to the grocery store is a pony ride and on the way home she feeds you sour cherries and throws mini-Luna bars at your head.
Ask her what a tiger says. Instead of “rawr”, my husband taught her to say, “Gwarrrrr.” As in GWAR, the heavy metal band that brought you hits like Womb with a View, Penguin Attack, and Crack for the Holidays.
Life is her carnival and she’s got a bootleg wristband to unlimited midnight Ferris wheel rides. What’s not to love? In dulcet tones, this is what she has to share about enlightening life at two years old.
1. I’m gon’ be so happy. I’m so happy. Are you happy?
Where does she find joy? Eating black olives for lunch. Showing me what the olives look like chewed up. Watching Kittens Inspired by Kittens on YouTube ten times in a row. Trying to oink, oink just as a piglet would.
2. I want to see bubber (brother). When is he home?
She is attached to her bro, but she patiently waits all day for him to hop off the yellow school bus and scoop her up for a kiss.
3. Do you have a surprise for me?
One of the studios at which I teach yoga has two big bowls of sweets near the shoe cubbyholes. One full of mints and one piled high with all the candy of your wildest rainbow-colored dreams. I fell into a bad habit. I bring her a tootsie roll each time I teach there. Now she asks for her surprise every time I walk in the door. I counter and say, “I have a surprise hug for you.” She narrows her eyes at that triflin’ and says, “Do you have gum?” But she always hugs back.
4. I want Dora. Wanna watch Dora on the iPad? Do you like Dora?
I took French class in high school and college. Now, beginning with the most elementary numbers, colors and exclamations, I appreciate what I’ve been missing in Spanish. But why does Ms. Exploradora have to yell, “Say it with me!” every times she makes a point?
5. I am a princess.
She’ll never be a hipster at this rate, copping the principessa attitude. I don’t know why she adopted this princess speak, but we’re stuck with it. At least her self-esteem is rock solid. Anything pink is a magnet to her sticky pudge hands. Between she and I, on laundry day, it looks like a giant pink zebra took a dump in front of the washing machine. La vie en rose.
6. Little by little by hook or bah crook,
I’m sucha tease and yer sucha flirt.
Once you been hurt, you been round enough.
Ah, ah, ah, ah-ah-ahhhhh. ~Radiohead
It’s a bouncy track but the lyrics are way dark. That’s life sometimes, eh? Guess we’d best work in some fluffy pop music for her listening pleasure, lest we ensure she has no friends in preschool. Lawd.
7. Don’t go to work. Let’s find a yoga pose. I do yoga. Are you yoga?
If it weren’t for my daughter, my home practice wouldn’t exist. We don’t have a heated cork floor here, but it’s free and she’s the best acro-yoga partner ever.
8. She speaks her own language.
You know the expression, “That’s a spicy meataballa.” She says, “How about a sushi? I like a spicy hummus. Can I have a macaroni?”
9. My tree (x-mas) is beautiful. Look at the beautiful lights. Noodles are green. (Needles.)
Her non-denominational rapture for the festive cancels out my natural Scrooge tendencies.
10. You don’t wanna say no. You cahhn’t say no to me. (Cahhn’t rhymes with want.)
Mostly, she gives this to her brother when he goes into emo-gamer mode and she feels like wrassling. It’s her modus operandi when she wants the contraband Crayola markers. The bright, bold and dark ones that have poisoned the white walls of our security deposit. “You don’t wanna say no” is what scored her a bag of organic lollipops from the co-op tonight. Daddy caved. For the record, organic lollipops taste like flat Fanta goddammit.
11. Cookie Monster is azul. Can I take care of him?
The big blue guy seems a little unstable. Either she wants to steal his cookies, or she’s genuinely concerned for his health. May he soldier on and enjoy his baked goods in moderation. Me like his lazy eye.
12. Soaking in her bubble bath with a stoner face she zones out and goes silent, staring into space.
Her gaze softens and she holds her arms out wide. She says, “I am music.” To my ears. If that isn’t meditation, I don’t know what is.
Dark places in my heart are broken, but on some days I’m the strongest human in the world. I seek yoga instructors who make my muscles bigger while teaching me compassion. But oh, how I’m learning, santosha (contentment) starts at home.
What do your darlings teach you about yoga and meditation? YOGANONYMOUS wants to know.
Behold, the faux Dora the Explorer action adventure movie trailer.
This article was published on YOGANONYMOUS 10/24/12.
By Hally Marlino
This spectacle is half freakshow, half miracle. Sounds like a job for yogis, right? The stunt couldn’t have been pulled off without flexible, muscular “yoga gurus”, so called by Erin Bates, sports reporter. She is also a dirt bike rider and the featured moto-model.
How many licks, brushstrokes and pairs of leather chaps were sacrificed to get to the center of this wild idea?
See this rad video for all the answers:
Ryan Berman, founder of i.d.e.a., spearheaded this project for International Motorcycle Shows. He said: “The concept really came to life when we were able to find Trina Merry, who paints bodies for a living. She was up for a challenge.”
L’artiste, Trina Merry said: “I’ve been on hyperspeed…delving into the motocross world. I couldn’t sketch it. I really needed to work with my hands. Making a sculpture come to life? It’s about coming together to express a sub-culture through the language of bodypaint.”
Why use Play-Doh yogis as an art medium? Merry wanted to know, “How does a body bend? What muscles in that person’s body are strong? What are their physical attributes that make them so key to that engine, or that wheel or that handlebar?” The end result is beautiful, modern and racy.
Here’s what happens when the rubber hits the road.
Check out more of Trina Merry’s art here.
This article appeared on YOGANONYMOUS 10/23/12.
By Hally Marlino
Strap on your puffy headphones and and bump this track. The helium-throated girl-next-door, Ellie Goulding, is here to take the edge off your day. Her cover of The Weeknd’s High For This is a study in contrasts. She sounds like she’s made of cotton candy, but the beat comes in chunky. Lean with it. Rock with it.
These beats are perfect for a rainy day home practice. The highs and lows might just balance your crown and root chakras. Go ahead, get lucky.
420? Notice, this song is a tantalizing four minutes and twenty seconds long. Ellie says, “Trust me boy,you wanna be high for this.” Shawty must be talking ’bout green tea.