Yoga, yoga, yoga...

News flash... I am a student again. I wish I was a student in New Zealand earning a Masters in Computer Science on my way to a PhD, but alas I am taking Yoga 1 at ACC Riverside. It is a step in the right direction in my mind, or at least that's the way a yoga master should think about it. The cup is half full and all that.

Our instructor, Patti Cagne, is tan and petite in her late thirties or early forties. She doesn't smell like patchouli, wear all hemp clothing or burn incense (at least not yet). But, her aloofness reminded us all that she is first and foremost a hippie and did lots of drugs.

The class is made up of the usual characters. The kiss-ass girl up front who's taken yoga before and already bought the book and brought it to class. The chatty girl in back who's wrist recently had surgery (note to self: don't take yoga after wrist surgery). The only other guy in the class and his fag hag. Mostly it's fat girls who think yoga is gonna help them lose weight. According to Legolas, our yoga assistant, yoga will raise your internal temperature and thus burn calories so maybe you're in luck girls.

My attitude sounds slightly contemptuous and for that I apologize. I am actually very excited about learning yoga and getting all the flexibility and circulation benefits. I would like to become stronger and be more balanced. Legolas assured me that I would achieve all these things.

Mustard Consulting

Recently, I did some consulting work for AYSI. Reagan Mustard hooked it up like surround sound. In order to appear more professional, I sent her an invoice with instructions to bill to Mustard Consulting. This seemed logical to me.

1. My name is Mustard.
2. I'm doing Consulting.
   
3. Give me cash money.

Rex Mustard pointed out, in his "Why don't you use your brain more?" style, that my bank wouldn't cash a check for me, Ryan Mustard, that was made out to Mustard Consulting. Touché Rex. This point contradicts corralary 3 above and thus was a serious problem.

There is also the related case of one Time Warner Cable trying to refund some overpayment to my brother Brian Mustard. Hopefully I can convince Time Warner to transfer Brian's assets to my account since I will be taking his place in reality. Otherwise I might have to go back to the Travis County Clerk's Office.

This morning, after a semi-legal consultation with the receptionist about wether my business would be most aptly characterized as a "Proprietership" or a "Sole Practitioner," I paid 16 dollars and was granted a Doing Business As license for Mustard Consulting. Cash Money here I come. Seriousely... Since I billed 30 dollars for the consulting work at AYSI, Mustard Consulting is already profitable.

Erotic Poetry Night

In case you hadn't heard, the National Poetry Slam is being held in Austin as we speek. The kind folks at Poetry Slam Inc. will be bringing together some of the finest american poets for a battle royal. There is a singles division and a team division with competition starting yesterday and finals wrapping up on Sunday.

There are some other poetry related events going on through the end of the week as well. Last night was Erotic Poetry Night at Ruta Maya. Ruta Maya is a coffe house on South Congress near Expose and St. Edwards University. Apparently no stranger to oddball performances, the crowd seemed at ease in the pleasant atmosphere. They were serving some tasty sangria and had Live Oak Heffeweizen on tap. The host was a plump 38DD woman in a lingerie bunny outfit. The three judge panel would rib the poets and then give their roman style evaluation with a giant dildo... "educational prop." It was news to the New York hosts that in Texas it is against the law to sell stimulating devices that are shaped like a penis.

The poets were excellent. The poems ran the gammet from sentual and sincere fantasies through filthy rotten sex to ironic and fantastical fiction. The first white woman to read looked very mod and professional in her parachute capri pants. She surprised everyone with great poem about her date with a scientist who turned out to be a mantis collecting women to have sex with. A few poems later came a raucous poem about Period Fucking. "It's more like a run on sentence," he explains "it goes on a for a few days." That was one of the dirtier poems. One of the last poets was a seemingly unkown jewish boy. He was buff and Sarah was afraid that he was going to fall over from being too topheavy. He had a great style with his voice sounding almost Puerto Rican. He even read a verse in hebrew.

I highly recommend checking out some of the Poetry Slam stuff going on in town this week and in the mean time check out some Def Poetry videos on YouTube. I found this little gem that is possibly the beginning of the skit that became Zapped! on Chapelle Show.

How much you wanna bet I could throw a football over those mountains?

This is slightly embarassing. About a week ago I had an "Uncle Rico" moment. I caught myself being deluded by an overwhelming desire to go back in time and change the course of history.

As Rico would surely have swung the outcome of the state football chamionship in his team's favor had his coach been wise enough to use his talent, the state debate championship would have been mine for the taking had I not been so overzealous in our last round. It was an exciting time to be in octo-finals of TFA state (that's the sweet sixteen of texas high school debate). My partner and I were true underdogs. Everyone else in the competition spent their summers at colleges around the country in debate camps while we stayed home. They paid thousands of dollars to develop strategies with elite coaches and read everything they could to be prepared for it all. I like to think my partner and I achieved as much as we did with luck, elbow grease and a little bit of liger magic.

We prepared for the state tournament better than anyone, our strategies were polished "D-Quon's Dance Groove" tapes. We were ready. And then in that fatal round we choked. We were farther than anyone expected us to be, and we were in a position to win the round pretty easily. Our position became weak when we threw in too many arguments. We couldn't defend everything and we eventually lost.

We promised the judges that all of their wildest dreams would come true and we tried to throw a football over the mountains. Unfortunately, the mountains rejected our best attempt. I was day dreaming about going back in time and doing things right... if only we hadn't read this argument, if only we'd been a little faster here we'd have taken state. No doubt in my mind. Man you better believe things would have been different. I'd have gone to an ivy league school, ran for mayor or comptroller... and then I decided to just be happy that I'm not living in a van making videos of myself giving debate speeches.