Get out of my sphere

So, this is weird.

My wife does that Kundalini yoga stuff. Sometimes she goes with our librarian friend, who's like Pookie for the stuff.

Anyway, their leader, or at least the one who I think is their leader, or their enabler, or whatever you call the one at the front of the yoga room, has this idea that I actually think has merit. I'm not even lying.

She thinks everyone has a sphere.

At this point, I'm making up everything about this sphere idea. I don't do yoga, not because I have anything against it, though I think parts of it are nuts. But that isn't a consideration, cause I think most things have parts that are nuts. The Designated Hitter. Transubstantiation. People in Memphis who do 20 in a 40. You know who you are. Get off Poplar. I'm trying to get to the mall.

But I think this sphere thing is actually worth thinking about, even though I actually have no idea about any of it. I've just heard about it, which for me is often enough. The basic idea, or so I've invented it, according to what I believe the yoga leader probably said, is that our core/soul/whatever you want to call it can emit some kind of forcefield thing that the yogics at the Kundalini call a sphere. I've got one, you've got one, everybody's got their own sphere. I can't figure out if the cat has one, but he has a big, spherical belly, so I'm going with yes.

Now, I think this sphere has something to do with existing or being or some esoterica that only yogurt practicioners believe in.

Whatever.

I think it's a great idea cause it can help me shake off the haters, or block them, or block anyone who's annoying me, or asking stupid questions. It's like the Death Star, but actually indestructible.

Wicked.

Get out of my sphere.

Actually, you can't even get in.

My sphere is rubber, you're glue. Bounces off of my sphere and sticks to you, you non-sphere-having blubberducker.

But, then, earlier today I got to thinking about the sphere. Originally I thought that my sphere, or yours, or whoever's, had to be sort of immediate to the person. Like a forcefield. But then I got to thinking.

Can I get other stuff in the sphere?

Can I get my wife in here?

What about the cat?

Does his sphere dissolve when he's in mine?

Is that gross?

Can I drink beer in my sphere?

Where do the empties go?

What are the limits of my sphere?

What are its capabilities?

Is it yoga-proof?

Does it have laser beams?

See what I'm saying? It's an interesting notion. I don't know much about yogaing, but I have this thing about this idea about the sphere. It's totally fascinating. So I guess yoga isn't all that bad. But it sure is weird. I'm not even sphere shaped.

Just an observation

I am really beginning to love the Facebook.

See, not only does it allow me to catch up with people I haven't heard from in forever (apologies if I'm slow to respond and or catch on) but, even better, I can see what they look like.

It has also made me aware of something that I cannot help but share with you all.

There are a lot of dudes from New Jersey that I grew up with that are totally cock diesel.

If any of you need a definition of "cock diesel," just hit the weight room for about 15 years. You, too, can be cock diesel. Just like me.

Now, believe me, I'm not making any fun. These are dudes that I grew up with and am quite proud to continue to call friends, even if we aren't exactly in touch or have seen each other. These are the guys that I would take to a rumble without reserve. I'm little, but I'm from New Jersey, so I fight mean. And this bunch of dudes would seriously eat you alive.

So, the stereotypes might be true. Dudes from New Jersey are totally jacked. Ladies, just keep that in mind. We're not only charming, but we are physical specimens worthy of the Ancient Greeks.

When presented with this phenomenon, my wife immediately asked "What happened to you?"

Sweet.

I Got Your Quick Fix Right Here

So, NPR is all atwitter (can I say atwitter these days or does Twitter have the copyright?) about some guy named Bill Weir from ABC's Good Morning America Weekend Edition. Apparently, Mr. Weir (no relation to Bob, unfortunately) is doing some online work called "The Quick Fix" where we, the beloved newsivores, get "Unique, quirky, quality reporting from some of our most colorful characters. No news desk. No tele-prompter. No fancy camerawork. Just the facts, just the stories, just the wildly unexpected."

Big flippin' deal.

See the mountain. See the molehill.

I don't mean to sound more skeptical than usual, but isn't this called by a million other names? Editorializing comes to mind, as does podcasting, or, say, reporting the news. I mean, if giving an opinion isn't the news, then what the XYZPDQ am I to say about O'Reilly, Stewart, Colbert, Olbermann, Beck, and the rest?

I hereby declare this entire to do entirely worthless. All Bill Weir's got on the rest of us is a Journalism degree from Pepperdine (no disrespect there) and a job with ABC.

I'm going to get me some video cameras and fix this quick.

NPR, I got a million good stories to fill up the time. Holla!