Bikram Doesn't Blow, But It Ain't in the Budget

© 2009 Leighann Lord

I wish I liked cheesecake. Every time I watch "The Golden Girls" it seems like there’s no problem that can't be solved by chowing down on a generous late-night slice of cheesecake. But try as I might, I can't seem to develop a taste for it. I feel the same way about yoga.

Yoga, like cheesecake, has a devout following and makes people feel good but I haven't had much success. I have a few dusty yoga DVDs (subtext: drink coasters) in my house. They’re probably great if you already do yoga and, with basics firmly grasped, are looking to supplement your practice.

My bookshelf boasts a pristine copy of "Yoga for Dummies." This proves that at one point I was serious about thinking about maybe trying yoga, again. But alas yoga isn't a theoretical thing. It's a get-on-the-mat and do it thing. And I have, with less than inspiring results. I often joke in my act: "I hurt my knee doing yoga. I hyper-extended it. Now I can't 'drop it like it's hot.' I have to carefully set it down at room temperature."

I want to like yoga. I really do. I have friends who swear by it. They claim it gives them flexibility, energy, vitality, tranquility. I could use a big dose of all of that. And so I try yoga every few years thinking it will be different. Maybe now I'll be "ready." In my ideal version of myself, I am effortlessly calm, cool, and collected. I imagine that Yoga will help me achieve and maintain that. Yoga will quell my angst, anger and general impatience with life. And then the sweet voice of the instructor dashes my hopes with an impossible request: "Close your eyes . . . take a deep breath . . . contort your colon into the shape of a pentagram . . . please stop crying, you're disturbing the other students . . . "

This time it's my Husband who's invited me to take a yoga class with him. And not just any old yoga, Bikram Yoga. That's the hot one. Ninety minutes of yoga done on the surface of the sun. I tried it and it didn't totally suck. I love the heat and was careful not to over do it. Yoga is deceptive. You think you're not doing anything so you push it and the next thing you know, you're doctor says you have a partially torn meniscus, courtesy of the tree pose. That'll be $800. Namaste.

It was a big class. Apparently hot yoga is hot. This instructor was patient and kind to the new students. My body did a decent job of keeping up, but my mind? Not so much. Between listening, doing, judging, critiquing, my inner monologue wouldn't shut the hell up. "Are we having fun yet?" the instructor chirped. "No. No, we're not."

Bikram Yoga, developed by Bikram Choudhury, is practiced in a room heated to 105 degrees Celsius. Uh huh. I suspect Bikram's air conditioning broke down one day and he just went with it.

As we struck yoga poses in the heat, images of southern plantations sprang to mind. Is Bikram Yoga like picking cotton without the whip? But instead of a measly 90 minutes the slaves did it all day long. Lucky them. If only their owners had known how healthy working out in the heat could be. The slaves would have had to pay for the privilege.

I optimistically wondered what would happen if I really like yoga this time. It won't be just books and DVDs. There'll be gear: yoga clothes, yoga mat, yoga retreats, yoga friends. I am keenly aware that yoga isn't just a workout it's a life style and I'm not sure if that's in the budget. I'd have to squeeze it in between my food, clothing and shelter lifestyles.

Mostly though, my mind wandered over more pertinent concerns. "Oh dear God! Am I doing this right? Are my hands, feet, legs, arms, head, colon, breath in the right place? I hope I don't look ridiculous." That's what's so difficult about adult learning. We're way more self conscious, cautious, inhibited. There's a certain level of arrogance too. We think being good at one thing, should make us good at everything. Did we learn nothing from Michael Jordan's ill-fated move from basketball to baseball?

Childhood isn't just the last likely location of our innocence. It may also be the last time we can feel free enough to look foolish while trying new things. It's as if the pain and awkwardness of puberty is so scaring, we all vow -- Scarlet O'Hara style -- never again.

It's difficult for a classic Type A personality to relax and go with the flow but I'm trying. I force myself to focus. I tell myself it's okay to look foolish. I'm probably not the only one. If the universe can survive that, so can I. And maybe, if Bikram Yoga works out, there's hope for cheesecake.

Leighann Lord is a standup comedian. See her perform 10/30 & 31 at Gotham Comedy Club with husband and headliner Jim Mendrinos! Check out her upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter. www.VeryFunnyLady.com

I Can't Hold My Bread

The Great Bagel Debacle
© 2009 Leighann Lord

I think I've developed an allergy to wheat, specifically bagels. I am devastated because bagels and I go way back. They’re what I lived on when I was in college. The year I arrived at school, the cafeteria was shut down by The Board of Health. My dining options were vending machines or local restaurants. The latter would devour my meager college student budget. That's when I discovered bagels. They were cheap and filling. Eaten at the right time of day, I wouldn't have to buy anything else. A bagel a day, kept the abject poverty away.

I don't have a doctor's diagnosis to back me up. I'm still waiting for Congress to get back to me on the whole health care thing. My evidence is purely anecdotal. Every time I eat a bagel I get super tired. I'm talking steak and potatoes tired. A nap isn't optional, it's mandatory. I can't focus or function until I lay down and let the fatigue have it's way with me. So while most people can't hold their liquor, I can't hold my bread.

I'm also dismayed because the list of things I can't eat seems to be growing:

Anything Served in a College Food Court.
Admittedly, collegiate food has vastly improved over the years. Anything is a step up from vending machines. But by the time I get to a campus to do a show, everything is closing and I'm getting the dregs of the day. A sandwich on almost stale bread or a prepackaged freezer burned salad is not my idea of a healthy dinner. Nothing seems particularly tasty when you carry it away on a plastic tray.


Anything Sold by a Street Vendor.
This stuff is probably never good for you, no matter how old you are, but it's convenient. It seems over time, however, that our ability to process street food in a discreet way makes it a less desirable option. Ice cream trucks were ruined for me when my parents asked: "Where does the guy go to the bathroom and wash his hands?" Thanks, Mom and Dad.

Anything on a Bar Menu/Anything Fried
I'm hard pressed to think of anything on a bar menu, besides alcohol, that's not fried: chicken fingers, cheese sticks, nachos (fried just not on-site), spring rolls. Spring rolls are tricky. How can a food with Spring in the title be bad for you? It's a culinary Jedi mind trick. "This is not the healthy food you're looking for." Now while fried food doesn't make me sleepy, I can feel the pimples forming on my face as I'm chewing.

Burger King French Fries
Because in comparison to McDonald’s, BK’s fries are just plain nasty.

Again, none of this is by "Doctor's orders," yet. But if you're paying attention, your body tells you, long before any medical professional, what you should and shouldn't be eating. You and your colon have a conversation. "Really? You're gonna eat that? You know we can't handle that. How about a piece of fruit? Wait, is that organic?" My body is in league against me. If my stomach objects, my colon sustains and I am found in contempt.

My Parents on the other hand have an extensive list from their doctor of what they can't eat. This makes going out to dinner difficult. Apparently anything "commercially prepared" is code for: "This is going to kill you."

We've got a bad three-week run where my Parent's wedding anniversary, is followed by my Husband's birthday, which is topped off by my birthday. Woo Hoo! Good times if you can eat ice cream cake three weeks in a row. And let me assure you, just because you can doesn't mean you should.

What's cruel is that almost all of the "bad" food smells good and tastes even better. Bacon smells like love. The primrose path to gastrointestinal hell is: smell it, want it, eat it, regret it. Perhaps the human olfactory sense will evolve to the point where it can tell when food -- natural or processed -- is a no no. If it smells bad, it is bad. If it smells good, dig in.

"What’s that smell? Hot dogs and cupcakes? Yuck, but that tofu is making my mouth water. Can I get that on a bagel?"

Leighann Lord is a standup comedian. See her perform 10/17 at the Tribecca Performing Arts Center as part of the New York Underground Comedy Festival! Check out her upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter.

www.VeryFunnyLady.com

Bottoms Up! Not So Fast

Last night for the first time in my comedy career someone sent a drink up to me while I was on stage. Puzzling, since I don't give off a "Hey let's do shots during the show" kinda vibe. That’s probably because I don't drink. I'd actually prefer it if the audience didn't drink either as my material is best appreciated by the lucid and full facultied.

It probably didn't help that the act on before me had not one but two shots sent up to him while he was on stage, which he drank. On stage. Equally puzzling, but then again how many other professions allow you to literally drink on the job?

Ironically, I had just finished telling a joke about NOT being a very good drinker and why I gave it up, when a beveled glass of a strong smelling brown liquid was passed up to me from out of the darkness. A young lady, whose birthday I had acknowledged, sent the drink to say "thank you." I thanked her, put the drink down on the stool behind me and moved on with my show. Well, that was the plan.

Much to my surprise a portion of the audience began chanting, "Drink, drink, drink, drink!" Nothing like feeling the peer pressure of an alcohol-fueled mob. Thankfully I'm made of stronger stuff. I humorously, but firmly, refused and continued on with my show.

I am well aware that this is antithetical to the popular image of stand-up comedians. We're all heavy drinking, pot smokers who sleep till noon. Quiet as it’s kept, some of us do manage to pull it together before 11:30 a.m.

There are those in the business who contend that imbibing before a show makes them funnier. And it does, in the same way that alcohol makes it easier to pick up women, have difficult conversations or operate heavy machinery.

Given how alcohol interacts with my body chemistry I fear the audience would be laughing at me, not with me. Not a big deal you say? It was to Stephen King’s "Carrie." If that’s the reaction I wanted to elicit I’d quit standup and reminisce over puberty.

After the show, another audience member made it a point to come up, shake my hand, look me straight in the eye, and tell me how much she appreciated me NOT giving into the audience pressure to drink. "I'm really glad you didn't. And you handled it with such style." I was glad to hear that someone dug it. I have a sneaking suspicion that The Chanters did not.

To be completely honest, it's not that I don't drink at all. I just don't drink when I'm working. I'm a workaholic. Ergo, I don't drink. But in the end, drug of choice is relative. Had The Birthday Lady sent up a hot handbag, I’d of asked for a double.

Leighann Lord is a standup comedian. See her perform 10/2 - 11 and 10/17 on the New York Underground Comedy Festival! Check out her upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter.

www.VeryFunnyLady.com

Gaddafi Needs a Nap

© 2009 Leighann Lord





Everybody needs their beauty sleep, even vilified world leaders. It was obvious to me as I saw Libyan President Muammar al-Gaddafi speak in front of the United Nations – puffy eyes, rambling speech – that at the very least, he needed a nap.

Muammar may not be sleeping well here in the United States since it’s so difficult for him to obtain lodging. There is no room at the inn or even a place to pitch his tent. Hostilities aside, you’ve got to admire a world leader that has his own tent. Now he probably doesn’t carry it himself, but it’s still very impressive.

As a former girl scout I have all my badges except for camping. I’ve never known the "joys" of sleeping out doors, under the stars at the mercy of creepy, crawling creatures of the night. I didn’t even survive the church parking lot simulation. I abandoned my buddy burner and said to my scout leader, "Look, I’ll sell the cookies, but sleep in the woods? I don’t think so."

Granted a world leader’s tent might have few more amenities and a few less bugs than an old Girl Scout tent, but Gaddafi is no great outdoors man. The scoop is, he prefers to sleep in a tent because he’s afraid of elevators. I’ve stayed in many hotels over the years and I don’t recall Motel 6 or Super 8 even having an elevator. But at least the latter will leave the light on for you in case you’re afraid of the dark.

This lack of welcome and safe place to catch some shut eye might explain the long, angry diatribe Muammar gave to the United Nations. Slotted for 15 minutes, he clocked in at 95. In stand-up comedy we call that "going over the light." Where’s the Sandman when you need him?

I might be a little angry too if nobody knew how to spell my name. According to Wikipedia, there are more than 30 different spellings for Muammar al-Gaddafi. I chose to go with the modern CNN version, as opposed to the classic network spelling that used a "Q" instead of a "G."

Perhaps Muammar was tired, cranky and over compensating. President Barack Obama is not an easy act to follow. He’s a dynamic, inspiring and a charismatic speaker, very likeable. Muammar? Not so much. He started by complimenting Obama, wishing that he could be president "forever" and then – speaking from notes like it was a junior high speech class – he proceeded to be Bitter Betty about everything. It reminded me of the title of a popular Off Broadway play, "I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change." Well as least he started off with something positive.

Much like a bad Open Mic Night, Gaddafi "walked" most of the audience. As he droned on, they strode out. Not many people have the fortitude for a 95-minute monologue. But they should have. They should have stayed, listened, took notes and planned accordingly. Sometimes people give you the gift of saying what they mean and meaning what they say. That 95-minute speech could have been a warning that the rest of us shouldn’t be sleeping well either.

Sweet dreams, Earthlings.

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I’ve Seen the Writing on the Wall and It’s Not Pretty

© 2009 Leighann Lord

I’ve always wondered about people who write on bathroom walls. What takes hold of them when the stall door closes? Why are they compelled to express themselves in the medium of ink and tile? What’s their inner monologue sound like? "I gotta take a leak. Where’s my Sharpie?"

It’s hard to imagine someone getting dressed for a night out on the town and their checklist including keys, money, and magic marker. But it must. Perhaps an epiphany struck at an inopportune moment and with no writing implement at hand to capture the thought, the cure for cancer was lost. A bathroom Wall Writer was born.

Porcelain is well known for its inspirational qualities, but people who write on bathroom walls are not just jotting quick note to self. They are writing to be read. Like a forerunner to FaceBook, wall writers are making declarations, posing questions and assassinating characters all in the same stroke. Let’s consider this deceptively simple but scintillating three-party political exchange:

Writer #1: "Bush Sucks!"
Writer #2: "No, you suck!"
Writer #3: "You’re both gay!"

Since this entry was not dated, it is unclear whether Writer #1 was referring to George Bush Senior, Junior, Jeb, Barbara, Laura or perhaps even one of the twins. I was, after all, in the ladies room and women can be catty.

Regardless of to whom Writer #1 was referring, no proof was provided of said suckery, the author obviously assuming it was self evident. Writer #2 with equal eloquence and brevity responded in-kind. Note here that Writer #2 either came to the bathroom prepared or, provoked by Writer #1, dashed out to Staples, bought a Sharpie and returned to pen a proper response. If that’s not dedication to the art of public discourse and debate I don’t know what is.

Writer #3's response, while following the trend of assuming facts not in evidence (it is highly unlikely she was privy to the sexual orientation of Writers #1 and #2), is most telling. While it’s plausible that the first two are engaged in some random base level political discourse, Writer #3 is all ad hominem attack, bringing nothing to the conversation. She might as well have penned "Your Mama!"

It would be disingenuous to condemn the act of bathroom wall writing, while simultaneously cooing over every newly discovered prehistoric cave painting. Is the etching of an early human hunting party pursuing a wildebeest really all that different? What is truly disturbing, from a former Catholic School girl’s point of view, is the breathtakingly poor penmanship. I’m not looking for calligraphy, but legibility is not too much to ask.

In a night club setting you could argue that perhaps wall writers are too inebriated to be neat. I disagree. If you’ve got a pen, you’ve got a plan. Have the stones to execute it with some style.

The problem is that schools don’t teach handwriting anymore. How are we supposed to figure out who our future doctors are if everyone has horrible handwriting? MCATs, schmcats. In the days of yore, if a medical school admission’s committee couldn’t read your application, you were in.

If kids today aren’t being taught to write cursive, how will they ever learn to read it? Will the original hand-written version of the United States Constitution be as baffling to them as hieroglyphics? Is this the plan or a case of unintended consequences? Perhaps this is the real writing on the wall to be worried about.

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Jerry Springer Comes to Congress

Where Was the Sargent at Arms?
© 2009 Leighann Lord

I figured if President Obama could speak to the nation’s school children he could speak to a joint session of Congress. I guess I was wrong.

I watched the President Obama deliver his health care speech and it seemed like things were going good for a while. But with each passing statement, fewer Republicans applauded. More of them began staring stoned faced as if in homage to Mount Rushmore. Was House Minority Whip Eric Cantor texting?!? Admittedly, I have a soft spot for Mr. Cantor. He looks to me how Harry Potter would have turned out had he gone to Slytherin instead of Gryffindor.

And then it happened. When President Obama began clearing up the misconceptions about the current health care proposal, saying that it would not pay for illegal immigrants, Representative Joe Wilson suddenly shouted out "You lie."

For a moment I thought I had been transported to the floor of the British Parliament or the set of "The Jerry Springer Show." Sitting behind the President, House Majority Leader Nancy Pelosi stared in disbelief. Vice President Joe Biden hung his head in shame. Clearly Representative Wilson had not read his handbook on Congressional etiquette. Way to go South Carolina. The Palmetto State’s standards might be a little skewed, with it’s own Governor Mark Sanford refusing to resign after an extra marital affair and political misconduct.

Where oh where was the Congressional Sargent at Arms? Finally, an opportunity to do more than just look official and he blew it. If this isn’t censure worthy behavior I don’t know what is.

To Mr. Wilson’s credit he did apologize. "This evening, I let my emotions get the best of me when listening to the president's remarks regarding the coverage of illegal immigrants in the health care bill. While I disagree with the president's statement, my comments were inappropriate and regrettable. I extend sincere apologies to the president for this lack of civility."

According to CNN, "Wilson also called the White House to apologize and spoke with Obama's Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel, who accepted the apology on the president's behalf." Wilson had to call the White House since he’s probably not on the BlackBerry short list. I imagine that President Obama wanted to take the call himself, if for no other reason than to kill him with kindness but Rahm Emanuel said, "No, Mr. President. I’ll take this one."

Nobody wants to talk to Rahm (I eat puppies for breakfast, kittens for lunch, and blue dog democrats for dinner) Emanuel.

Demonic Lackey: "Excuse me? Mr. Satan, Sir? Rahm Emanuel’s on line one."

Satan, suddenly looking nervous and less sure of himself, says: "Oh God. Tell him I’m in a meeting."

With inappropriate behavior like this, I certainly hope the nation’s school children weren’t watching.

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