Literal Shitstorm

About five days ago, when Seattle was having a nice warm spell (55 F!) I went for a jog down at Myrtle Edwards Park along the water. As usual, the wind coming across from the Olympic Peninsula was fierce but at least not really cold.

On my way back home, I walked under some young cottonwoods at the north end of the park. Amid the wind and sideways rain I didn't realize that about 50 starlings were sitting in the trees. All of the sudden I was caught in a literal shitstorm. First one foul glob of guano hit the shoulder of my fleece hoodie (I'd JUST washed it) then I got some in my hair and finally one wad of bird shit hit the side of my glasses and my face.



Gasping with grossness and cussing the birds out, I staggered behind a short, stubby fir tree and cleaned the worst of the shit off. I got home and promptly took a shower. My fleece hoodie went back into the dirty laundry pile and I forgot about it and went to class.

Wednesday night, coming home from class, I started coughing. It felt like an asthma cough. Thursday morning I was feeling pretty bad. Friday, I was in such bad shape I had to have someone fill in for me at the yoga studio on custodian detail. Yesterday, I stupidly went to yoga and tried to workout and then clean. I nearly blacked out I was so dizzy. When I took my temp last night at 7:30pm, it was 101.6 F.

While groggily coughing up phlegm in the shower this a.m., I remember the shitstorm of a few days ago. Did that cause this?!

But then again, I'm reading a lot in one of my holistic MySpace groups about the dangers of dairy products, how they weaken our immune system and how Starbuck's now sells more milk than coffee.

I am sooo all done with lattes. Never fucking again.

A Fellow Yogi

I knew Rick Linville only in passing. And I passed him a lot coming and going from the Bikram yoga studio up in CapHill.


He was a tall, ghostly-pale, unassuming guy. He was famous for freaking newcomers out with his noisy deep breathing during the beginning posture and he repeatedly dazzled 20-yr-old athletes with his deft ability to do "doubles", as in doing one hot yoga class right after another. That's like going into a 98-degree room at 4:40pm, doing the exercises and then staying for a second round to finally leave at 8:40pm.

I went to a small memorial at the studio for him last night. There were a lot of candles and flowers, one of the studio owners set up a small shrine in Rick's old position on the floor complete with a basketball and a bottle of his favorite soda. Rick had insulin diabetes (which he monitored with the occasional soda) and end-stage hepatitis which was destroying his liver. He had been coming religiously to the Sweatbox for four years straight and credited it with extending his life.

It was an awesome memorial. We did a 'silent' workout and got to listen to Brian Eno CDs, who Rick liked and it was perfect tunes for the event.

I'm certain Rick is enjoying perfect workouts now in a much nicer studio complete with cosmic sunlight.

Namaste

I ... Must ... Emulate

I'm supposed to emulate this guy's writing for my White Papers class.

I still feel kinda sleazy and dirty when I write marketing or ad drivel. It's like a Ganette-Urinal flashback or something and that daft shit, Sloane, is leering down at me asking me how the advertorials for the car dealership insert are coming. Ewww.

Oh well, if things go right, in a couple months I'll be writing for either a place that does genetic mutations or Gates of Borg out at the assimilation center in Redmond.

I'll try and post the link to my white paper when it's done so all of you (all two of you) can point at it and laugh.