Yes, I have issues with yoga teachers. They must've tortured me in a past life. Maybe they were medieval doctors who bled me with leeches. Either way, I've said it before, and I'm sure I'll say it many more times (because I don't have that many new ideas), but the DMV is more discriminating about who can drive a car than are the majority of self-and-stomach-tire-hating people willing to hand over money and, more disturbing, the well-being of their ligaments and joints to a white man with dreadlocks and/or a controlling temperament so distilled that if he were to bottle it, the Mexican drug lords would have something to think about. (Was that run on sentence worth the payoff? Didn't think so either)

Yes, Debbie Allen made it very clear (if you're old enough to have watched the original "Fame." No? Sorry for you, that must really suck) that fame is pain, or sweat (or something like that). But Debbie Allen didn't know yoga in LA. And when I say "yoga," I mean a power workout of pushups and sit-ups and agonizing positions held for longer than any physical therapist would deem safe. And then maybe a few stretches. This is West LA we're talking about. Do you think Jennifer Aniston looks like that from meditating? Hell no.

While some teachers have a genuine capacity for self-reflection and humor, the guy I had tonight took the power of commanding a class of 100 people with the seriousness of Obama on the national debt, war in Afghanistan and next election (all wrapped up in one).

"Now, as you get up, I want you to roll your matt up slowly, and then put your left shoe on before your right shoe..."

Almost that bad.

Just for today, I survived yoga.

Tonight, I signed up at the Open Mike of Yore (that means the past, I think). Located in a coffee shop that looks like the community room of a hippy Y-camp and feels like a homeless shelter (sorry, Unurban), but was the first home to those thoughts that bubble up and demand release (and later found them in my blog.) I didn't exactly hit a rhythm, but I got some laughs and survived. With the exception of one guy who didn't say anything for four minutes, the comics seemed to remain within the bounds of normal (in an emotionally unbalanced way) to slightly awkward.

However, back in the da-ey this open mike attracted a pretty scary lot. One guy, a large, heavy-set cab driver named Manuel frequently yelled and raged into the mike about the women in his life/cab/anything, but off-stage he seemed as deferential and vulnerable as a beaten down puppy. That's when I first realized that meaning of "stage pesona." The audiences usually consisted of about four comics, and someone trying to study. I often sweated bullets until they called my name and mumbled through a set with a subdued, low impact, performance style. Often my material veered towards self-deprecation, as that seemed to get the most response. Sometimes I hated myself for using self-hating material, and I've noticed that tendency with young female comics. But a joke is a joke, with or without social redemption, and, ultimately, I learned how to write one (I hope). However, today, I prefer a stand-up blog.

Just for today, I can attempt stand-up comedy.

"When I see people in wheel chairs watching us dance, I feel bad for ever feeling sorry for myself," I told Salsa Guy Who Is Sometimes Cool.

"Whenever I see old people watching me dance I feel like I'm dancing for them," he replied.

Self-pity, fear, anxiety and dread notwithstanding, dancing salsa can only be described in terms used by one discovering the fountain of youth. (And if you live in LA, you know how much that means.) Dancing in the summer, however, is nothing short of magical. Live music, warm nights, full moons, chill vibe.

Just for today, I am grateful for salsa in the summer.

A friend of mine recently told me about a situation that could only emerge in a post-Facebook climate. Her 7th Grade Crush contacted her one night via the chat feature (another scary thing, but that's another blog) and they shared a redemptive moment in which they both confessed their mutually unexpressed pre-pubescent feelings. It might have been sweet, but then the guy went all Steve Buscemi on her and started writing in all caps about how he would NOT GO THROUGH THAT KIND OF PAIN AGAIN. After some polite, conciliatory exchanges she got off the chat and quickly de-friended her 7th grade amour.

Damn. Reality. In a zeitgeist of compulsive connection, the importance of un-networking yourself can get lost.

One night I discovered that My 7th Grade Crush is in jail for murder. However, according to his page (from which I gathered this info), his brother is responsible. (As if that's supposed to make me feel better). I also happen to have known the brother. My best friend kissed him. Yes, these were heady days. And while my 7th Grade BFF and I both now share the clarity of where our 7th grade passions would have led us, the question remains: Where the hell were our parents?!

So, as it turned out, my First Love Partner In Make-Out Session was/is what you might call a disreputable sort (scary gangster thug). His reputation is the stuff rap songs are made of. Word on the street is that he worked his way through "bitches" and "hoes," destroyed lives, property, acquired a decent collection of tats, and ultimately proved that the penal system, while imperfect, can be sensible. Ok, so he's not exactly Facebook friend material. I hate to say it, but I thought about.

"No, you are not friending him," said my 7th Grade BFF (as well as her Husband who also happens to be my friend from 7th grade).

No, I'm not trying to reconcile an old love. But imagine the statuses...

Just for today, I have boundaries.

So my new second career of becoming a Super Genius User Experience Designer isn't quite working out. Would Einstein be willing to sit through an InDesign tutorial? Would he learn the short cuts? Or would he laboriously scroll to the menu bar? I'd say he'd laboriously scroll through the menu bar and then write something pithy about master files.

Either way, my lack of design skills and/or lack of desire to attain them has led me realize the need to declutter my career goals. Like with the french horn and tap dance, I had to admit to myself that I just didn't want it that bad. Why do I need to start another career? I already have two kind of teetering on the brink of extinction.

It's time to retire my life of being a Jack (or Jane) of all trades, master of complicating my life.

Just for today, I'm happy to let go of something.

Someone...organize an intervention (mom?). I'm out of control. Pirated television and me just got a little more intimate. Geez, it doesn't take much. Just slap some medieval garb onto The Sopranos, throw in some pseudo-ethnic looking motorcycle-gang style warriors, an inbred King, and some truly hot knights and my attraction to sociopath-driven blood drama has never shone with more sparkling clarity. Ok, fine none of the female characters make an iota of sense. (Exactly when did the blond Dragon girl fall in love with her rapist husband?). And, no, I don't think those dudes really smelled too good underneath 50 pounds of animal skin. But damn, if incestuous twins, head on spikes, dragons and an ocean of syrupy blood doesn't make for good television.

Just for today, I'm addicted to serial television.