Practicing Tantra with a seventy year old man - excerpt Gurus Rock Stars & the Men In Between

My home was filthy at first, but once I got through with it now sparkles and smells of the familiar iodine concoction for which I’ve developed a bizarre affection.  It’s home.  It’s my space and it’s private.  But it’s lonely.  While I appreciate introspection, there are moments when I feel I could live or die and no one would be the wiser.  And I’m not simply being poetic.  Coming home one day, bathing away the dust and grime of an Indian summer I emerged from the bathroom and most definitely dry, I switched on the light as dusk fell.  I was immediately thrown by what felt like a thousand bolts of electricity pulsating through my body.  In absolute shock and some physical paralysis I fell back onto my bed, still wrapped in my bath towel.  I laid there not sure if this is the right thing to do, but I could feel my psyche switching over to that almost feral primal sense, where the body becomes all-knowing, silently demanding I stop thinking like a modern creature.  Both terror and ultimate calm jockeyed for first place.

“Be still,” I told myself. 

“Oh fuck, this is it!   I’ve finally done it.   I’m going to die alone, without anyone knowing where I am and how I died.  It’ll be days, maybe weeks before they find my body.  I had no idea it would end like this.  This sucks!” 

“Sssh,” my better self responded.  “Be calm, let your body heal.  It knows what to do.” 

I drifted off to sleep or death, I wasn’t sure which.  Hours later in complete darkness I woke with a gasp like the first breath of a newborn.  I was alive.  My body had indeed known what to do.  I wanted to tell someone.  I don’t even know what time it was, but I could tell it was the middle of the night.  The world was dark and silent, something rare even in rural India.  Used to the almost daily blackouts I have candles and lighter by the side of the bed.  I found my clock, four a.m., and decided the best thing I could do was to give my body as much time for sleep as possible.   The next morning I told the young boy at reception.  But it’s India and nothing will be done.  Ever since, when about to touch the switch I can be found sporting rubber soles and gloves.  Madam is looking very sexy these days.   If there can be an experience worse than death, perhaps it’s broaching the subject of tantra with a seventy year old man.  This aspect of Vedic culture intrigues me.  I’ve been hoping Dadaji will broach it, but as of yet he hasn’t and my days here are numbered.  It’s been a month and I’m leaving soon to continue my travels, and in particular to meet a Swami in Kulu.  I have to approach the subject now or never. 

“Dadaji, um… there is something I’ve been wanting to learn.  I don’t quite know how to say it…” 

After much prodding I continue, “I want to understand… to learn how to do tantra*.  I feel like it is an important part of life.” 

I can hardly describe the look in his eyes, which if I take a stab is some diabolical combination of disbelief and absolute glee. 

“Oh my, what do you want to learn about it?” he probes in his antiquated but flawless upper-crust accent. 

“Well, you’ve covered other aspects of Vedic lifestyle and philosophy but this is a huge part too.  I want to be trained in that aspect of my life.  I’m only young and I want to know how to do it properly.  You know… sex.” 

“You really want to learn this?” 

“Yes, I do!”  

I’m relieved to finally expose the subject, grateful that he’s taking it in stride.  Without another word, and with a look in his eyes that might just remain forever tattooed in my memory (no matter how many showers I take), a rickety old man complete in grey Neru suit lurches toward me like a zombie in a horror movie, lips open, intent on teaching me firsthand the secrets of tantra.

“Oh God no!  No, no, no.  I don’t mean that.” 

He stops in his tracks, “What do you want then?”  

He’s truly perplexed.

“I want to learn the philosophy of tantra, that’s all.  God no!  It’s actually late, I should go.” 

I almost admire his optimism.  Almost.  One thing do I concede looking at it from his point of view… a young blond literally landed on his doorstep one month ago, completely unannounced.  Why not a young blond that wants to be his tantric mistress?  

It’s time to leave.

* An indepth science where sexuality is practiced as a sacred ritual.

My ticket is booked destination mocha, to a saffron-soaked India - excerpt Gurus, Rock Stars & the Men In Between

Several months and as many countries successfully checked off my list, I think I’ve got the gist of what most Western European countries have to offer.  If you don’t mind me saying the Dutch are organized; the Italians and Spaniards have freshly-squeezed orange juice at gas stations and quite possibly the hottest men; the Swiss are O.C.D. and the Portuguese may or may not eat dogs if the carcasses in their butcher shops are any indication.  While mostly pleasant, (well except for the slaughter of man’s best friend), my experiences have been so… pedestrian.  Whatever treasures may have once been hidden have already been plundered.  Not that I imagined otherwise.  In a moment of brilliant abandon I hopped a boat in Portugal for Morocco.   Leaving the large cities in favor of the Sahara Desert and colorful Berber tribes, it only took ten days of hair-raising adventure to confirm what I already suspect.  The mystery I seek is not in Europe.  And while exciting, nor is it in North Africa.  I just finished Autobiography of a Yogi, devouring it from cover-to-cover, unable to put it down.  It confirmed where I must go.  Where I’ve always known I’m headed.  I just needed to earn my travel-stripes, and more money.  

 I saved for a year’s worth of shenanigans yet only a few months in, found myself nearly broke.  All those croissants aren’t cheap.   After Morocco I headed to Switzerland where I’d heard rich Genevois like to hire undocumented nannies.   The backpacker grapevine was right and I landed a back-to-back stint as a jeunne fille* for two aristocratic families in the French-speaking city of Geneva.  Both boasted the illustrious Baron and Baroness title, and both were challenging.  The first family was lovely, but their anti-Christ-like child was hell-bent on slaying the post of nanny.  He wasn’t a bad kid.  All he wanted was his mum, a not totally unreasonable request.  The children of the second family were a delight but the Baron was an old-school ‘noble’ who thought the hired help wouldn’t object to him importing his mistress into the family home the moment his wife and kids took off to Spain en vacance.  Sorry.  That’s not how we roll in Australia.  I most certainly did mind.  And I let him know it.

This only makes my forthcoming trip all the more exciting and timely.  I’ve seen how the other half lives, the half with titles and castles and towns named in their honor.  The half that takes the Nanny down to Monaco to meet up with the Baroness and les enfants, and threatens her life should she whisper a word about the mistress in the wife’s boudoir the night prior.  I don’t want a part of it.  Don’t get me wrong.  I like me some money and I’ve no aversion to prestige. But shouldn’t it stand for something?  If we’re all going to die, there has to be more to life than material success.  Right?  I do want to achieve great things, but before I break my neck climbing the proverbial ladder of success, I want to make sure it’s leaning against the right wall.  Perhaps more than anything I want to reclaim a sense of magic; something that disappeared with the rude awakening of adulthood.  As a kid I experienced great synchronicity with the world around me, a rich spiritual connection.  I felt I not only belonged in this world, but that I was loved and celebrated.  I realize how lame that sounds, truly I do, but I sensed reciprocation from the universe.  I actually sensed it.  I want it back. 
I don’t profess any one spiritual path superior to another.  I’ve always had a soft spot for Jesus since my schools were denomination-based in a saccharin-vanilla Christian sense. Regardless of cultural origins I’m convinced we remain unique and the innumerable available spiritual paths exist to accommodate our many flavored needs.  Though raised on a blond blue-eyed Savior, I’ve booked my ticket destination mocha.   I am seeking my flavor, my reason and my answer to life’s question in a saffron-soaked India.  I don’t plan to abscond for life, but I do want to learn the one thing my religious school never taught.  I want to learn about the elephant in the room.  The one we pretend isn’t here.  I want to know what it’s all about Alfie.  I want to know the meaning of life.

---

* Jeune fille means “young girl,” colloquial for nanny

Love is the Drug - new Washington Times article

http://communities.washingtontimes.com/neighborhood/omkara/2011/mar/9/love-drug/

My husband is a Rock Star - Gurus, Rock Stars & the Men In Between excerpt

These are the days of magic; days we travel the world performing for thousands of fans, running off to Greece for a post-tour romantic getaway.  Days we take spiritual sabbaticals in India, sharing both heavy austerities and the joy of fresh papaya dripping with lemon juice.  Days we invest in real estate, tend our organic garden, and sweat out summers convinced we’ve found the only masochist on earth who shares a disdain for recycled air. 

My husband is a Rock Star, a type personified by that affable and charismatic scoundrel, Bill Clinton.  He’s not as powerful as Slick Willy, and arguably better behaved, but he does enjoy Clintonesque fame in his own B-grade way.  Don’t get me wrong – that’s no slight.  B-grade fame is fabulous!  Jokes about B or C-grade celebrity suggest the status is easily achieved.  On the contrary, it takes hard work and B-grade fame enjoys advantages that most people underestimate.  As long as we’re talking about real artists and not the latest nasty-ass stripper with her own reality TV show on the Oxygen Network, the lower rungs of fame earn my utmost respect.  A-grade fame attracts the crazies and the stalkers, something I learned impressively on tour with A-list celebs, No Doubt.  Their fans are for the most part the loveliest a band could hope for.  Even so, I was regaled with horror stories of the sordid little things in innocuous little packages that make their way to Gwen Stefani on a daily basis.  She’s a down to earth Orange County girl who quickly learned to have security quarantine all incoming ‘gifts.’  Life’s precious privacies are exchanged for A-grade fame in ways one can’t imagine.  My gratuitous name-dropping serves as the perfect segue into another story where No Doubt invited us as guests to watch them perform on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.  I look nothing like Gwen Stefani even on a good day, but with blond hair and apparently what must scream a skater-girl uniform, fans rushed our group as we emerged from the TV studio thinking I’m the diva herself.  We pushed through the passionate crowd and into our car, laughing at the madness of it all.  They love this woman so dearly they willingly overlooked my clear blue eyes in place of her chocolate browns, and my five-feet/one-inches over her five-seven.  Out of the studio grounds and into the labyrinth known as Burbank we five, clueless-in-L.A. New York City punks realized we were lost and made an illegal u-turn.  So did five other cars.  “Gwen” was being chased!  We set off on a high-speed pursuit that would make any Los Angelina proud, weaving in and out of traffic turning left then right, and slicing through gas stations on corners to avoid red lights intent on thwarting our escape.  Certain we were no longer being trailed (and quite enamored with our evidently amazing evasion skills) we abandoned the streets in favor of the 101 freeway back to our hotel.  Almost immediately we slowed to a crawl.  L.A. traffic! But we didn’t care. The sun was shining, and we took the opportunity to drop the top on our convertible Mustang rental.  No doubt (pardon the pun) friends back East weren’t enjoying such a warm April afternoon.  Within thirty seconds two fans jogged up to the car, huffing and puffing, risking life and limb begging me for an autograph right on the freeway.

“I’m not Gwen Stefani!”

“Yes you are.”  A pretty brunette countered defiantly.

“No I'm not!  Look at my eyes.  My God, listen to my accent!"

“But you signed a CD back at the studio!”

Oops, I did… but only because the crowd was so persistent, and the boys goading me on.  There’s no excuse.  I shouldn’t have done it.  It took several more impassioned declarations that I am not Gwen, noting absolutely all our physical distinctions to convince them.  I’m almost sad I did.  They were markedly happier five minutes ago.

Is Happiness the Key to Weight Loss - new Washington Times article

Is Happiness the Key to Weight Loss?  New article by Sri Keshava at The Washington Times

Professor Tim Sharp

from 

The Happiness Institute

From the White House to Straightedge punks: Contrarianism is uniquely American.

Washinton Times article by Sri Keshava

New York snark Vs L.A. nice

N.Y.C. Vs L.A.

snark Vs nice 

New Yorkers can be snarky when it comes to Los Angeles.  Sometimes it’s not even snark but rather a bona fide reaction to a successful smoke and mirrors campaign.  When it comes to the City of Angels, New Yorkers tend to lick the outside of the honey jar.  And frequently refuse even do that.  On occasion even the sweetest New Yorker can be heard uttering something along the lines of, “Yeah… it’s just that people from L.A. are sort of... shallow.”  It’s not true.  Or rather it can be, but it’s an illusion half the good people of L.A. are happy to perpetuate in a diabolical attempt to avoid a mass east coast exodus west.  It’s a similar scenario between Sydney and Melbourne (a microcosmic homage to bed pal America for anyone that cares).  Melbourne, our New York proxy has analogous opinions about Sydney-siders.  The good peeps of Sydney, like good Los Angelinas, hear the slander and just don’t give a crap. Maybe it’s that response alone that sends New Yorkers into a rage?  Remember, pot is legal in California.  No wonder, “it’s all good,” is part of Californian vernacular.

So the shallow part…  Absolutely.  There is an absolute repulsive, retch-inducing side to L.A.  It’s called Entourage and it’s got a few flavor variations.  Fake boobies.  Yeah.  Sunset Boulevard.  Yeah.  But doesn’t New York also have the Frying Pan and Wall Street?  (And all the clichés that hitch along for those joy rides?)  Don’t get me started or I might have to mention a few other charmed spots in the Big Apple.

Los Angeles has something that New Yorkers enjoy, but perhaps too little: The humble house party.  No wonder New Yorkers think Los Angeles is full of douchebags.  Statistically, there are a large percentage of said douchebags out on the town on any given Saturday night.  (New Yorkers, does the term: Bridge and Tunnel ring a bell for anyone?)  Very few have been invited to the humble house party.  And if they are at a party, they’re at a douchebag’s house party like Heff’s.   If he were canine he’d be an Australian sheep dog, keeping the herd localized.  Thanks Heff.  In homes scattered all over Los Angeles, from historic Pasadena to nature’s Topanga Canyon; from Victorian mansions overlooking downtown in inner-city Angelina’s Heights Echo Park to Venice beach… and every where in between, good people are inviting their friends over to eat, drink, talk, dance, celebrate and get to know each other better.  It’s a rather nice human tradition.  The only problem is that you’ve got to be invited.  Los Angeles is a jewel opened through relationships.  If you’ve got fake titties, (and without malice,) you’re likely not invited to my party. I’m pretty sure you don’t even want to come. 

 L.A. has some of the best hiking a major city in the world can offer.  I’d be curious and open to suggestions where there is better – all things compared.   L.A. has great beaches.  They pale to Australia, but that’s a personal issue I have to deal with.  New York is a vortex that can forbid escape for months at a time.  Think of that feeling when you’re returning from a rare breakout to upstate New York.  You see Manhattan in the distance over the river, and it starts sucking you back in.  You can physically feel yourself being pulled (willingly mind you) into the vortex.  L.A.’s vortex is interrupted by gorgeous mountains and a Pacific ocean that consoles the frazzled with the promise that no matter how crazy the city can be, you can stand on her shore and let the negative-ion charged wind blow the crazy right out of you.  A true snarky New Yorker will hate me for even mentioning the term negative ions.

I recently went to a house party in New York; a fantastic ground floor garden apartment.  Of course it was in Brooklyn, because when one talks of anything fun in New York it’s probably happening in Brooklyn.  It was such a nice party with truly good people.  They were very New York, in every likable way.  But good people are good people.  Just like Americans as a whole need to travel more and enjoy meaningful experiences with other people in other countries, New Yorkers need to leave New York and just maybe pry the lid off the honey jar and get their fingers sticky.