Den Cotton

I’m feeling a little more A.D.D. than usual today. And being the super-spaz child that I am inside, I’m looking for answers to a thousand (and one) questions. Discuss amongst yourselves… please help me answer my most pressing doubts, concerns, and fears. Take your time… this is one of those new age classrooms where we give you all the time you need to finish your work…

1) Who will lead the NBA in ATA (ass taste average) next season? 1A) Could Barack Obama go old school on Jesse Jackson with a “Tell me how my nuts taste” freestyle rap?

2) How awful will Michigan be with Rich Rodriguez this season? 2a) How good will West Virginia be without RR? 3A) Will WVU take the buyout settlement cash and celebrate all the victories RR gave them?

3) Will Aaron Rodgers officially retire this season in Brett Favre’s shadow? 3A) When Favre sent a text message to Ted Thompson, did the Packers GM reply with WTF, OMFG, STFU, or TTYL?

4) Will Detroit declare Kid Rock its own Johnny Cash after his All Summer Long smash hit?

5) If the Yankees manage to earn a playoff spot, will the New York Post call it the Sticky & Sweet Tour? 5A) Will Jeter stop playing hard to get now?

6) When we’re all homeless during the NBA finals next year, will illegal immigrants teach us to grow and pick our own vegetables — or will they hold a grudge?

7) Why should we care about MLS soccer when its teams continue to lose in the Open Cup against squads from less notable leagues? 7A) Will U.S. soccer fans quit whining about their second rate fields and stadiums until their teams are actually legitimate? 7B) How is it possible for the LA Galaxy defense to suck so badly?

8.5) When the Cubs lose in the playoffs, who will dress up as the scapegoat mascot?

9) Will people stop pretending that tennis is exciting to watch on TV? 9A) If there were a grunt-off in women’s tennis, who would win Wimbledon? 9B) Is the art of grunting more valuable on clay or grass?

10) If the price of gas keeps climbing, will we have the pleasure of seeing less Nascar? 10A) Is it o.k. to discriminate against racing or is that reverse racism?

11) If two lesbians are making out at the ballpark, do you alert security or just pretend you’re in the porno Where’s the Italian Sausage?

12) If the aging veteran McCain knocks off diaper dandy Barack Obama this fall in the presidential finals, will he get a shoe deal from the Capitol Senior Living Center?

13) If no one is there to see it, does the NHL really make a noise when it falls in the woods?

14) If horse racing were banned, would anyone actually consider living in Kentucky?

15) Will Congress investigate performance enhancing vocals on pop radio?

“You’re looking down again
and then you look me over
we’re laying down again
on a blanket in the clover
the same boy you’ve always known
well I guess I haven’t grown”– jack white III

OK, this is going to be a pretty serious diatribe, mainly about the musical desecration that Kid Rock has graced us with in 2008. First and foremost, I don’t enjoy being a critic unless it is warranted. And this is a moment where I have witnessed another atrocity in the world of music, further driving home my point that musical taste has decayed into oblivion, causing me to think about chopping off my penis. But someone has already taken that joy away from me by whacking off his schlong and documenting it so carefully — which leaves me to deal with my own spiritual suffering. So my dear music lovers from far and wide, I am imploring radio stations across the world to stop playing Kid Rock’s All Summer Long (for the rest of the summer and all of eternity) from the Rock N Roll Jesus album…

Just based off the song alone, this should have been entitled Rock N Roll Judas. But in an effort to be fair and open minded, I watched one minute and 30 seconds of the video (all I could take) which was equally pukerrific as the song. And it made me hate summer! Which used to be a season I loved almost as much as spring! Go ahead and read the glowing commentary on Youtube about how this little number is so “catchy.” Why does it sound so damn catchy? Because it is a composition of two hits by someone else!!!!!! Wake up America!!!!!! (For those of you scoring at home, “Wake up America!” is my new homeland security system/slogan when I get pissed off about something really trivial.)

I don’t know if Kid Rock still knocks down “whiskey out the bottle,” but I do know this is a public urination on dead people — whether inspired by a drunken fantasy or not. Lifting Warren Zevon’s Werewolves in London and Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama — while inserting ridiculously cheesy lyrics — doesn’t make a song. He could have pissed on Zevon’s casket and it would have been less offensive than this annoying monstrosity. I heard Zevon’s original playing today as I was about to eat lunch, and I prayed with all of my might to the real Rock N Roll Jesus that it wasn’t the Kid Rock tune.

The only message that I could get behind in the song was an utterrance about “we didn’t have no internet,” which I could at least appreciate since I’m blogging away in all my fury. In all its crapdom, maybe this little ditty was supposed to be some bizarre tribute to Zevon/Skynyrd, while purveying the sheer shallow and backwards innocence of high school?

Anthony Decurtis gave this review in Rolling Stone:

“As he well knows — and Rock N Roll Jesus proves — roaring guitars, truckloads of attitude and an unquenchable lust for life make up for a multitude of sins.”

Basically, I guess Decurtis is saying, that if you play real fucking loud, all is forgiven! I was having some kind of Spinal Tap moment when I read that. Mabye this album “goes to eleven.” I can dig that honesty I guess. Well, this dreadful song doesn’t make up for its sins — such as ripping off Zevon and Skynyrd, then calling it your own. I hate “sampling” or whatever plagiaristic form of musical looping this is defined as among the geniuses at Atlantic Records. I wouldn’t listen to the rest of the album (even if I owned it) after hearing this song. Well, the tune entitled So Hott (that’s with a double t) does sound very Paris Hiltonish, so I might be able to groove to that one.

As my new friend Sara so poignantly exclaimed, “I just want some music that doesn’t suck.” I wanted to tell Sara that everything is okay. But I knew it wasn’t; not by a long shot. Unfortunately, people keep paying for unoriginal, trite symphonies of yuckety-yuck blah. Enough American Idol! I tried to restore Sara’s faith in humanity by turning her onto Peter Cooper, and I reiterated that Tommy Womack was still playing in my car (for about the tenth week in a row). It’s all I could do to stave off her musical depression, but I knew she was right — because there is not enough music on the radio that doesn’t suck.

Kid Rock fans, I’m not picking on the man solely. It’s just a symptom of the industry, and I don’t want to direct all of my animosity his way — since the man has to get paid. But I speak the truth. You can see it in Nashville too — where country music has become a total mockery of itself. Quite frankly, I want to put a boot up its ass. I mean hey, What Would Toby Do? I remember when Jack White complained about the lack of radio play for Loretta Lynn’s Van Lear Rose (an album he produced) a few years back, while mentioning that Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy) could be heard incessantly on country radio. And Jack was right… except instead, Toby Keith is played 15 times a day on local radio stations everywhere, while the real Nashville musician struggles to get a paycheck.

I have written a lot of garbage in my time — and I plan to again (if not today) — which means I can see clearly on these matters. But I guess you still must take my critique with a grain of salt since my only real musical talents involve playing my Yairi Alvarez very badly, and singing obnoxiously loud, as only I can. However, I don’t usually get paid for it — which is how it should be!

Once I go to the ballpark, I will know the absolute truth about All Summer Long. If it is blasting loudly as Joe So & So steps up to the plate, I will have corroborating evidence that this song smells wonderturdly like an awful brand of unholy, new millennium teen spirit.

“Raspberry, strawberry, lemon and lime
What do I care?
Blueberry, apple, cherry, pumpkin and plum
Call me for dinner, honey, I’ll be there

Saddle me up my big white goose
Tie me on ‘er and turn her loose
Oh me, oh my
Love that country pie

I don’t need much and that ain’t no lie
Ain’t runnin’ any race
Give to me my country pie
I won’t throw it up in anybody’s face”

– Bob Dylan

So with the lesbian kissing ban goin’ on in Seattle, I got to wonderin’ about whether or not they should play YMCA at the ballpark anymore, because we surely don’t need anything else that feels uncomfortable — shameful even — goin’ on in our baseball stadiums. But I’m a skeezy skeezer and I’m jonesin’ for something fresh, something with a little more flare. I thought maybe — in the interest of expanding our (musical and cultural) horizons — we should consider another hot anthem so I can get my Electric Six fix!!! Yeah!!!

I went to see the Asheville Tourists play tonight and I met up with a friend of mine who is so utterly homophobic that he canceled a date with me a few years ago to see Bridget Jones Diaries — mainly because some other folks bailed out and he thought it looked suspicious. I’m not saying that isn’t a little gay sounding — two heterosexual men going to see a chick flick — but I don’t worry about such nonsense usually. However, I’m still upset that I didn’t get to see Bridget Jones until this year. Where was I going with this? Sorry, I got all hot about Renee for a second and I was having some latent homosexual desires while reminiscing about the canceled date with my friend. I thought it would have been awesome if the A’ville Tourists cranked up Gay Bar instead of YMCA at the game tonight, so my friend could get all uncomfortable, like he does. Look, Asheville is a pretty liberal city, but I bet that would have sent some old folks home in the 4th inning.

Seriously though, doesn’t that make you want to get out of your seats more than the Village People? And I know that little E-6 ditty probably doesn’t get lesbians all lathered up — well, maybe it does I guess… kind of a sexy song if you ask me. I’m pretty sure I could get down to business with it — even while watching Bridget Jones in the background. But anyway, we can’t have an overabundance of girl-on-girl tomfoolery — and a total lack of man-to-man offense — in the cheap seats.

So, I’m petitioning for more Electric Six at the old ball game. I mean, I guess it’s enough excitement already when I have some heteros makin’ out in front of me. Hell, people of any sexual orientation tonguing in public is too hard to handle - because I can’t take the high voltage! But two dudes getting kissy-kissy at the ballyard would be en fuego — especially if it were a couple of teammates in the dugout. It’s my desire…

“San Francisco’s calling us, the Giants and Mets will play
Piazza, New York catcher, are you straight or are you gay?”

– Belle and Sebastian

I have a short attention span and don’t always listen real well, so I know that I’m not a woman. But it still makes me wonder what effects there might be from eating women’s breakfast cereals in high doses.

On at least two occasions, I have accidentally purchased snacks and cereals marketed to women. The best I can figure is that I’ve gotten enough folic acid to be ready for any future pregnancy after indulging in Zoe’s O’s and Luna Bars. I’m pretty sure my mom didn’t get enough folic acid — which would explain my obvious brain defects.

Now, I know you’re thinking that I should have noticed the dancing chicks on the packages, but to be fair, the Luna Bar girl — in her stick figure beauty — is a tad androgynous, in my opinion. I guess there is that signature of “The Whole Nutrition Bar For Women,” but sometimes I don’t pay attention so good. I have absolutely no excuses for the Zoe’s O’s blunder, since there is obviously a more womanly-looking character on the box.

I guess my worries escalated when I cried a lot of girly tears while watching the movie Lars and the Real Girl last weekend. It is a pretty deep movie, but it doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t be concerned about my eating habits — especially after reading an extremely entertaining article about soy making kids fat and gay. And even though I’m a skinny, heterosexual vegetarian, you can’t help but be a little concerned with such investigative reports.

So I have two boxes left of Zoe’s granola cereal, and I thought about whether I should eat the rest; and if I would actually have a nice rack one day. But I figure that I can do a lot for myself by eating all of it, and finding out what it feels like to be a fat, lipstick lesbian.

“Well I’m finding it harder
to be a gentleman every day
all the manners that I’ve been taught
have slowly died away
but if I held the door open for you
It wouldn’t make your day”

–jack white III

Well, I opened up a real can of lima beans recently, with lots of worms in it. And as you might have guessed, I’ve taken a lot of shrapnel in the last few days for my self-parody column entitled Why Women Should Be Banned From All-Star Voting.

While it is certainly a ridiculous notion to suggest that women shouldn’t vote in any election, especially some stupid popularity contest like the MLB All-Star game, I am very serious when I say that I don’t want to see any more male reporters on the sidelines. It’s not to say that women should be put on the sidelines — no no, not at all — but there is entirely too much machismo already, for my personal taste.

I know I’m still a sexist jerk — now hating men too — but women just bring something fresh to the game, perhaps even a different perspective than the common drivel I hear every time I turn on a telecast.

First of all, most of you guys on TV are really not that good looking to begin with, and I’ve heard every silly cliché I care to hear: it’s do or die; it’s pivotal; there’s no tomorrow; such and such team draws first blood; you can feel the electricity; it’s gut-check time … yada yada yada. Seriously, is that the best you can do?

Again, sexist I know, but women make the game sexier than all of you men and your blatantly phallic-sounding, obnoxious commentary about penetration, being on top, scoring etc. Not only are chicks better looking than you, they are knowledgeable and more subtle too about their sexual urges — so why do I want to spend time listening to you and looking at the same old tired faces I’ve always seen? Seriously, have you seen Tony Kornheiser and Erin Andrews side by side? It’s not a tough call.

Another thing, where are all the female hockey reporters? What is up with that? I know there is some potential out there because I met a lot of hockey chicks on the Internet last week who can check you into the boards like nobody’s business; and then tell you about it. I’ll admit that I don’t get to watch hockey much because the NHL completely ruined the playoffs by putting games on networks that I don’t even get. But if I did get some hockey, I’d want to watch a chick talking back and forth with Gary Thorne while the Red Wings lose in the finals. Sorry Detroit fan, I’m a disgruntled former Blues follower, and we’ve been taking a pounding for years from you guys, and I just want to cry like a girl now.

So yeah, there needs to be more female sports writers and sportscasters, because quite frankly Steven A., it is getting harder and harder to listen to the same ‘ole shtick night in and night out.

The fact is, women are needed in sports, and you know when they have “the it factor.” See, you realize right away when a chick is badass with a microphone, just like when I pick up a White Stripes album and listen to Jack White tear up shit on the guitar. It might take a second or two to digest what you just heard, but you know it is top notch — and there’s nothing else out there like it.

So yeah, it’s more than just a pretty face. Ladies, I still think we can work this thing out. I know my brand of humor isn’t for everyone, but I’m an equal opportunity moron.

It is true that “any man with a microphone can tell you what he loves the most.” I know no one wants to admit it, but there is a little Colin Cowherd in all of us — whether you think he or I is a total idiot.

So let me be clear, I’m not backing down. A Seven Nation Army and a 10,000 LB Elephant won’t stop me from having a Ball and Biscuit with someone from Detroit…

Let’s have a ball and a biscuit sugar
And take our sweet little time about it
Let’s have a ball girl
And take our sweet little time about it
Tell everyone in the place to just get out
We’ll get clean together
And I’ll find a soapbox where I can shout it

You read it in the newspaper
Ask your girlfriends and see if they know
That my strength is ten fold girl
And I’ll let you see if you want to before you go

Jack F#!*ing White III

Dear Soccer/Fútbol:

I just wanted to apologize from the bottom of my heart for all of the horrible things I said about you when I wrote the headline “If Illegal immigration is such a huge problem, why does soccer still suck in America?”

I know you don’t suck in America even though there are more popular sports like baseball, basketball, and football. You are very talented, and still popular among the people who really count, just like the indie bands I listen to over the Top 40 garbage I hear on the radio every day. MLS — while getting better each and every day — is not as exciting as the Premier League, but I don’t care. Soccer, I just want you. I’ll do anything to get you back. You are as sexy as ever, and I can’t live without you.

The truth is that I used you; used you in the worst way. I was trying to be cutely poignant in displaying my radical viewpoint that we, as a country, are taking the easy way out in turning our backs on a hard-working race of people by wanting to kick them out, while putting a lock on our borders, instead of creating better initiatives as well as programs to support a more logical way of ensuring that all residents can be productive and contribute culturally to a nation of immigrants, eliminating the idea of illegal human being status. Even though we stole their land in the 1800s, they still want to come over and teach us to play your wonderful game of fútbol. I think that says a lot about a group that could forgive so easily, and still want to mingle with us imperialists. Even though I said those nasty things about you, I hope you can see now that I didn’t mean to hurt you with my bizarre behavior.

I realize now that I shouldn’t have made a fool of you for my own political gain. If it makes you feel any better, there are a lot of people who think that I’m a total nutjob because of all the outlandish things I said.

Anyway, I still think you are beautiful — the most beautiful game — even in America. I’ve loved you since I was 6 years old. I think you have raised some of the most talented players in the world, in any sport — despite the fact that there are still a lot of prima donna crybabies and divers. I can even accept Cristiano Ronaldo since he has such skill and mastery of the ball. I know that you can’t parent every player to be perfect, and they will all have some flaws.

The next time I need to make a point, I surely will choose something else to exploit. I will also try to be less vague, although I can’t promise it won’t be politically charged, no matter how silly or nonsensical my analogies, figurative speech, and allusion happen to be.

If you take me back, I will try to support you better — in good times and in bad — even though I don’t think you will ever be loved as much in America as in Europe. But that’s ok. You still make my heart flutter and that’s all that matters. We could even renew our vows — that is, if you want …

I know I don’t always say and do the right things — being the silly and sometimes insensitive person that I am — but I’m hoping you can see the beauty that’s in me too, even when I act downright stupid. Don’t let this ruin our marriage.

So let’s grow old together and raise lots of fans. What do you say? Maybe together, we can win the World Cup in America one day.

Love,

Den

“I’m coming through the door
but they’re expecting more
of an interesting man
sometimes I think I can
but how much can I fake
I’ll speak until I break
with every word I say
offend in every way”

jack white III

Every Sunday, I venture out to the local soccer complex where my former B-league club, Stumptown All-Stars — more affectionately known as (the) All-Stars — fearlessly take the pitch for another intense match. And there is usually no shortage of Latino players on any given Sunday, or any day of the week for that matter, at most of the fields in town.

I’m not one of those guys who immediately wonders if any or all of them are illegal aliens nor do I really care much. But I have thoughts albeit different ones; thoughts to their story. How did they get here? And why?

I once overheard this comment from an opposing player when a group of Latino players arrived for their game:

“They must have just gotten off the bus,” he said (with a British laugh) only within earshot of a handful of acquaintances and teammates. I wondered if he had just gotten off the plane. Perhaps he was right, but how could he have any idea of their status?

There are a couple of teams in the league which feature almost a full lineup of Latino players. And there is no question that they take their soccer seriously — at least more seriously than the All-Stars — but not anymore than a lot of the other clubs dominated by American players, who seem to think they are playing in the MLS. I’ve recently come to the conclusion that soccer players — of any ethnicity — are the biggest prima donna crybabies in the world; especially in the World Cup.

I suppose this so-called “immigration problem” is an issue that hits home with me since I worked with a lot of Latino men and women in the orchard business, who I don’t know for sure were legal. And so it’s a long debate of the many intricacies surrounding illegal immigration, ranging from stresses on the health care system to its effect on wages and jobs in the U.S.

I was interested to learn recently that one of the problems with hiring American workers in the landscaping business — young people especially — is that they sometimes will not last on the job, many quitting after a few days due to the demands of hard labor. Which results in losses — lost time and investment — for the business owner, making it very attractive to hire illegals.

But my hypothetical question is this … If you lived below poverty level in Pennsylvania but could move to New York, make twenty times the amount of money — even though it was illegal — with the likelihood of not getting caught, would you do it for your family?

The biggest problems in this country do not involve illegal aliens although we like to believe so. We find it convenient to point toward these things without truly analyzing the broader scope of issues within ourselves and our own government, which has made illegal immigration an issue due to its blunders and missteps not only at home, but also abroad in the never-ending quest of imperialism; its warring business; and its current Team America: World Police of Dubya & Co.

Issues like immigration come to the forefront when leaders are too busy meddling in affairs of other countries — when it is unwarranted — while forgetting to manage their own backyard.

Last year, I went on a quest to better understand the foibles of government past and present — a conscious effort of brainwashing if you will — and so I picked up A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn, which is a very intriguing read, although admittedly, I haven’t finished it. It gives an account from “the people” affected by government — in many cases, the disenfranchised — rather than the usual run-of-the-mill school text book, government-style perspective. It helped me to get in touch with my inner hippie, liberal commie, anti-establishment side.

So putting my hummus plate and veggie burrito aside for a moment, I wouldn’t say that illegal immigration is not an issue, but it is not THE issue.

Sure, I get a little frustrated when some of the Latino soccer clubs bring out a mariachi band to midfield after scoring their tenth goal against us. But I’m just pissed because they humiliated us, and not because I think they are all freeloading border jumpers.

And even if they are, soccer still sucks in America pal, further proving illegal immigration is a secondary issue to the real American problem.

“White Americans, what?
Nothing better to do?
Why don’t you kick yourself out?
You’re an immigrant too.
Who’s usin’ who?
What should we do?
Well you can’t be a pimp
And a prostitute too”

— White Stripes

It’s official.   Zooey Deschanel is the sexiest woman in the world. I heard her sing (Take it Back from She and Him Volume 1) on the radio this morning, and I have to say — at the risk of sounding like creepy stalker guy — that I am indeed smitten, not only with the album itself, but also Zooey the actress, and all-around loveliness.

Ever since I saw All The Real Girls (2003), I knew there was something about Zooey. But once I heard her sing in Elf — that charmingly, raw and beautiful voice filling the air — with Will Ferrell, I just can’t get enough Zooey.

I don’t know how to describe her voice — maybe a little sultry appeal to me — but there is just a very unrehearsed quality from several different eras, perhaps a 60ish sound, with almost a loungy feel at times, and even a country vibe on tracks like Change is Hard.

The only thing comparable to my ears would be the sound I hear on Holly Go Lightly’s Truly She is None Other. And even though I love Holly — especially since having the endorsement of f#!@ing brilliant Jack White, who wrote the liner notes — I’m hopelessly devoted to Zooey.

If anyone needs me, I will probably spend the rest of my Lonesome Town evening on YouTube with Zooey.

“Tonight I’ll dream while in my bed
when silly thoughts go through my head
about the bugs and alphabet
and when I wake tomorrow I’ll bet
that you and I will walk together again
’cause I can tell that we’re going to be friends”

–jack white III

I don’t know how much longer the Roger Clemens career-reducing drama can go on, but I’m asking Congress to give this another try—and to get it right this time.

Clemens’ homemade version of The Surreal Life is in episode 14 where the former seven-time Cy Young Award winner admits to helping Mindy McCready with performance-enhancing vocal tracks when she was 15!

It has reached a whole other level of bizarre. That’s exactly why Congress needs to step in and just simply impeach Clemens — so that we can all move on with our lives of watching American Idol, Desperate Housewives, and C-Span.

No more riveting questions from Bruce Braley (D-Iowa) about whether Clemens is a vegetarian, vegan, ,villain, veteran — baseball veteran that is — or veterinarian. Let’s just get it over with and impeach him—just like Slick Willy. If there’s one thing that Congress has no tolerance for, it’s vegans, baseball cheaters, and philanderers.

I can hear Clemens’ next 60 Minutes address to the nation: “I did not sing karaoke with that woman, Ms. McCready.” After that, we can start the proceedings to have him impeached from baseball, ESPN, and the New York Daily News.

The whole affair has entered the phase of tabloidal wackiness. I realize that Clemens is drawing a lot of the attention upon himself — just stopping short of denying ever having played the game of baseball — by filing a defamation suit against Brian McNamee, his former trainer; fellow thespian and co-star. So perhaps it is open season for that reason. But there has to be a beginning and an end to such a sad tale — which doesn’t need to last as long as Clemens’ storied and once-projected hall-of-fame career.

In these situations, we always end up saying things like “I feel sorry for the family…” or “I feel so bad for the kids…” — and in this case, I have some empathy for Roger’s son Koby. I don’t know anything about the guy — other than that he is a baseball prospect and son of a great pitcher — but here’s a young man trying to start his career. Meanwhile, there are still all of the lingering, Wisteria Lane theatrics with his father. Most of us, no matter how resilient, wouldn’t be able to handle that kind of distraction without it affecting us to a great degree.

Now, I don’t know if Clemens can imitate Bill Clinton’s classic finger-waving denial or not, but I wish he would try. Clemens hasn’t pitched the final “Perfect Fit” of his career. Once that happens, Congress can close the books on his final inning—and so can the rest of us.

“Well now you heard another side to the story
But you wanna know how it ends?
If you must know the truth about the tale
Go and ask the milkman”

–the raconteurs

Perhaps I’m losing my religion — if indeed I have one.

According to my neighbor, Beelzebub is lurking in the form of a downward-facing dog yoga pose. That is still up for debate, but I am sure that a demon has been lurking in my injured groin for at least eight months.

I seem to be facing some type of purgatorial punishment for trying to play recreational soccer with a freakishly scrawny body that would cause female supermodels to knock down my door like zombies for some of the better heroin — or “the skinny” as I like to call it. Now, I’m stuck in this terrible limbo of not knowing whether I will be able to sprain my ankle again like Beckham and possibly facing relegation to the couch for countless hours of Fox Soccer Channel.

The conversation with my neighbor started off pretty innocent after I explained that I was suffering from a devil of an injury. How does one end such a plague of the loins? Well, prayer of course. Or maybe try worshiping a yogi — if you are a heathen like me. She is a really cute yoga instructor in case you are scoring at home.

My neighbor offered to pray for me in a noble effort to heal my groin — and I tend to find such things somewhat endearing because people usually have their hearts in the right place. The thoughts of prayer however, would somehow lead down a road unforeseen.

From what I could gather out of the conversation, my neighbor seems to have issues with Buddhist practices and is completely against meditation that isn’t centered on religion — Christianity that is. I simply told him that yoga is the perfect way for me to relax, and that I wasn’t planning on joining a cult. Though he persisted that yoga “empties the mind” and allows negative thoughts - Satan specifically - to leech into your being.

The whole conversation reminded me of when I was in grade school at St. Theresa and a mascot controversy reared its ugly horns. The administration wanted to change the red devil to a monarch so that we could either be the ruler of our opponents or flutter away from tenacious defenses. Insert nearest Dick Vitalism: Are you serious? Definitely Madness with a capital M.

I have to say that a friendly game of soccer was much more meditative than yoga. Nothing like crashing into people at high speeds with little protection and cursing referees for not calling a penalty in the box when I was clearly tripped.

It’s odd I guess, but I almost have to be active in meditation — which is why I tend to fancy yoga. Church never really brought it home for me. I couldn’t sit still that long and my mind tended to wander into far-away places.

I did my penance. I went to Catholic school for 12 years — and if I want to do yoga instead of listening to sermons, then by God, I have earned that right.

Don’t get me wrong. I still go to church once a year to a midnight mass at Christmas with my father. But it sure would be cool if I could do a lotus pose during Communion although that is virtually impossible now with my busted groin.

More recently, I did visit The Basilica of St. Lawrence in Asheville, North Carolina — land of freaks, hippies, anarchists, protestors, liberal commies, Hare Krishna, and yoga studios on every corner. Admittedly, I only went to church because I heard it was pretty inside, and I knew it would remind me of my dad, who lives several hours away in another state.

As my neighbor and I chatted onward, I wondered if he was trying to sell me on his brand of God. I had to put a stop to that — so I quickly told him that I was raised Catholic. That is codeword for “all other religions are inferior” and “I don’t want to have this conversation any longer.” Besides, I needed to go chant or something.

Granted, a conversation with your neighbor about God and yoga is not nearly as frustrating as the door-to-door Jesus salesman. I definitely have a problem with religion knocking at my door. I know my dad and I can agree on that. Once people tell me that I need to “be saved” or request that I read scripture with them, they would have better luck “saving” their spiel. But it would be super if someone would show up on my doorstep wanting to practice yoga.

I should close out my thoughts with a confession of sorts — to avoid hell’s fire of course — by saying that I have really friendly neighbors who would help me out any time and even offered to cut my grass (not my hippie pot) while I’m a cripple. With that said… Namaste.

“Judge yourself if you feel the need
Just let me alone to be
In search of the truth myself
There is a drop of blood on the ground
And it seems to me that it’s not my kind
And I can’t be sure if it’s yours or mine”

-Jack White III