Get your puja on

Apu: I have come to make amends, sir. At first, I blamed you for squealing, but then I realized, it was I who wronged you. So I have come to work off my debt. I am at your service.
Homer: You're...selling what now?
Apu: I am selling only the concept of karmic realignment.
Homer: You can't sell that! Karma can only be portioned out by the cosmos. (slams the door)
Apu: He's got me there.

--The Simpsons

Fig.1 My favorite Hindu

Like many Americans my age, the first Hindu I met was Apu Nahasapeemapetilon. As a kid with no previous concept of racial stereotypes or the offensive nature associated with them, I embraced Apu with pure love, if only for his humorous accent and the friendly way he always said “Thank you, come again!” no matter how terrible a customer was.

In a roundabout way, Apu represents the most patriotic of institutions: the American Dream. He graduated first in his class of seven million from CalTech (Calcutta Technical Institute) and came to America to get his doctorate in computer science. He started working at the Kwik-E-Mart to pay off his student loans, but remains in Springfield to this day. He married Manjula, fathered eight kids and keeps a garden on the store’s rooftop accessed through the secret door disguised as a freezer case containing non-alcoholic beer.

Possessed of a tireless work ethic, a sharp intellect and a deep devotion to Ganesha, Shiva and Vishnu, Apu is, despite over-generalized appearances, a very positive Hindu figure in American culture. His perpetually open convenience store has helped the Simpson family through many hard times, and if the appearance of real-life Kwik-E-Marts across the country in the summer of 2007 is any indication, Apu’s humble business is a quintessential symbol of American life. For me, walking into a Kwik-E-Mart in Burbank and drinking a Squishee for the first time was nothing less than transcendental.

Alongside Apu, Indiana Jones had a big hand in my youthful perception of Hindus. I was only sixteen months old when Indiana Jones and the Temple Of Doom was released, but the pop cultural engine created by Spielberg/Lucas and company was running at full steam by the time I could put two words together. I grew up with my parents’ large VHS collection and knew all the references to Harrison Ford characters that the Muppet Babies blatantly showcased in nearly every episode.


Fig.2 Not standard operating procedure for Hindus

When I was still too young to be at home by myself after school, I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s house. My sister and I made forts out of sheets and spent all our free time carrying out our shameless obsessions by watching the same movies and TV shows on a loop. Of course, one of the looped VHS tapes on my granny’s TV was Temple Of Doom. By the time DVDs appeared, that tape in particular was run through the VCR so many times that the CRT had a permanent image of Harrison Ford’s face magnetized on the glass. I would put on the movie, set up pillows on the carpet in a big rectangle, wear my favorite old ratty silk nightgown, lay down in it like a frozen snow angel and when Willie Scott was being latched into Mola Ram’s sacrifice cage, I’d pretend I was being lowered into the volcano and plead for Indiana to save me.

For years, I believed in Shankara stones and faraway Indian jungles filled with giant vampire bats and the beauty of Pankot Palace. Most of all, I marveled at the bright and sparkly costumes worn by Willie and the palace dancers. The Hindus had it going on, as far as I was concerned. Like many westerners, I was allured by the mysterious glamour of Indian culture, swept away by its music, dance, and polychromatic artistry. It was centered so far away on the planet as to feel fantastic and surreal, and kids are such suckers for everything so different from what they’re used to.

Fig.3 You can rescue me anyday

As adults, we get annoyed that kids display such a degree of endless passion for new things, but deep down, we envy them their unquestioning devotion. Before life became colored by injustices and complexities, devotion was easier and more fun. We shake our heads at adults who can recapture that brand of loyalty, and I can’t help but believe that children remember something we forgot.

After I freed myself of the bedsheet-and-table-fort-building years, my next Hindu influence appeared on a real-life plane of existence. My circle of middle school friends included Sneha, a tall, slender, and very brainy girl who didn’t eat beef. She was clever and funny and shared my love for The X-Files and of course, a huge crush on Fox Mulder. We went to the same high school and kept in touch for the first few years of college.

One day, while riding our bikes to a local book store to buy some class texts, she mentioned that that narrow street north of University smelled like Bombay. Garbage, restaurant fryer exhaust, and urine. I will forever remember that going to Goerings is not unlike a trip to an Indian metropolis.

One year, she invited my friend Alan and me to an Indian cultural function at UF’s O’Connell Center. We met up at her apartment and marveled as she dressed up in a sari and told us what to expect. We arrived amongst a slew of similarly attired Indian immigrants and their American-born families. In retrospect, I suspect it was a Diwali festival, and they celebrated with a colorful variety of food and shopping stalls selling jewelry, clothes, trinkets and what I would later discover to be my favorite Indian export: Bollywood DVDs. As we perused a DVD booth, Sneha happily pointed out actors she recognized and how sexy they were, constantly reminding me of how essential to life it was that I watch some Hindi movies. I was lost in a sea of unfamiliar and beautiful faces and was eager to take her advice.


Fig.4 Y'all can rescue me too, please

There was lots of dancing on the basketball court, so Sneha eventually went down there to join a large group of other smiling faces for a traditional dance using sticks and catchy drum music. I bought some child-sized bangles (the only ones that stayed on my wrist!) and took in the festivities with great interest. It was a nifty peek into a world I would later dive into with much enthusiasm.

Sneha and I lost touch as the months went by and classes got more involved. As is customary for my generation, I caught up with her again on Facebook. She lives out of state now, so our interaction remains a digital one, but her influence on my current interests has turned out to be monumental. I don’t know that I’d have been so open-minded about studying Hinduism and Indian culture had it not been for her presence in my youth.


To be continued...

Critical Mass

“For Christ plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs and lovely in eyes not his.”
-Gerard Hopkins


Fig.1 Eggs are for omelets, silly rabbit

My little cousin was raised Catholic. She went to a Catholic private school until eighth grade, serves at mass, goes to many church functions and camps and jokes about the priests’ varying sermon-giving skills with my grandma around the Easter dinner table.

One Easter Sunday we sat around and discussed the resurrection story, spun it into contemporary language, and in the end, realized that it was actually the craziest Spring Break “Disciples Gone Wild!” vacation story ever.

Just imagine Jesus explaining it to his mother:

“I don’t know what happened. One minute I was at a party, drinking with my buddies, the next, I wake up in a cave wrapped in a shroud. Then I looked at my hands and went, ‘Whoa, where the hell did those come from? And all these scars on my back and my head and this gash in my side… I swear, I had no clue what went on between Passover dinner and the cave, so I called Father and he moved the stone out of the doorway for me and went to find the guys.

“I asked Peter and Paul what happened. They were all like, ‘Dude, we thought you were dead,’ and I was like, ‘You morons!’ Son of God here! I am one with the Father and the Holy Spirit! Get with the program!

Fig.2 TTYL

“They said that after the dinner we went to Gethsemane and got into so much trouble. Judas sold me out and the police came and arrested me and took me to trial and made me drag a cross through town and crucified me! Can you believe that? Wait, you saw all that? Holy shit. I don’t remember a thing.

“I mean, gese, listen: we came into Jerusalem, got A-list treatment at first, did some seriously awesome miracles… we were on a roll. Sure, Thomas forgot to book the restaurant I wanted for Passover, and the new place only let us all sit on once side of the table, but he came through. We were having fun! And then all this crap happened. *sigh* Tell you what. Life down here sucks. I’m out of here in 40 days. No, really, I’m gonna go live with Dad for a while. I think it’ll be the best thing for everyone.”

I apologize to Jesus for that, but I don’t think he sweats the small stuff.



Fig.3 Bad carpentry

As I mentioned above, I have Catholics in my family. My grandmother grew up on a tobacco farm in Puerto Rico and has been Catholic all her life. I’ve been to mass a few times for happy and sad functions, and my cousin, with whom I am very close, is very active in her Catholic youth groups. My brother-in-law grew closer to his Catholicism while abroad in the Army. It’s not foreign to me at all, and frankly, compared to my protestant Christian upbringing, it never seemed all that different from what I saw at the Methodist church.

Stephen Colbert showed me the difference, though. My in-depth Catholic education sprung from him, and trickled into several pools and eddies along the way.

It began with one of Stephen’s favorite guests: Father James Martin, SJ, a.k.a. “The Colbert Report Chaplain.” He first came on the show to discuss the newly discovered letters of Mother Theresa that outlined her lengthy “dark night of the soul” and struggle with her thoughts on the “absence of God” in her life. Stephen, in his uppity and ironically iconoclastic “Stephen” guise, instantly condemned her for her lack of faith and Father Martin defended her, explaining the difference between not believing in God and believing in God’s absence.

The conversation was conducted in a manner that fans have come to expect from Stephen Colbert: hard-lined but respectful. His words and reactions are almost always hard-lined on the surface, but the questions and retorts actually display Stephen’s deep understanding of and respect for religion, especially the nuances of Christianity.

Fig.4 If Edward Norton doesn't play him

in a biopic, I don't know who else will

Father Martin, gamely playing along with Stephen’s otherwise inflammatory inquiries, displayed that winning combination of spirituality with a sense of humor and I couldn’t resist. I went to the library and checked out his book, My Life With The Saints. With this book, he sets out to provide a bit of a primer on why Catholics revere the saints, one of the biggest sticking points in the tension between Catholicism and protestant Christianity. Written in a warm, inviting, and good-natured tone, his stories of how several different saints informed touchstones or turning points at various periods in his life beautifully revealed the great value in this tenant of Catholicism that I had never really considered before, and it inspired me more than I could have imagined.

In the book, he details his childhood, his conversion from a business career in corporate finance to Jesuit seminary, his missionary trips to Uganda and Jamaica, his pilgrimage to Lourdes and spiritual retreats, and all along the way, he is introduced to different saints’ life stories. Each story somehow corresponds with a struggle or miracle in his own life, and in this way, he befriends them, coming to know them and all their flaws and profound faith in God as close companions in his heart and soul. As a Jesuit, Father Martin interprets this experience of the saints as just another way to see God in everything, and to learn from such visions and visitations.

Fig.5 I bring you Peeps

As I read My Life With The Saints, I came to realize how much we shared in our spiritual experience. None of my saints appear on silver medallions or on prayer cards or will ever be canonized by the Pope, but in that they pop up at advantageous times in my life and help guide it toward enlightenment. Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are as good as Ignatius of Loyola and Thérèse de Lisieux. Charlie Chaplin is my Patron Saint of Creativity. Michael J. Fox is my Patron Saint of Persistence. Dr. Temperance “Bones” Brennan is my Patron Saint of Logic. Paula Deen is my Patron Saint of Indulgence. Connie and Katrina are my patron Saints of Nerdiness. Elissa Hunter is my Patron Saint of Exploration… and Manatees.

It’s a distinctly Society of Jesus trait to “love God in all things—and all things in God,” which is a challenge to see God everywhere and learn from it. It’s a lesson not unlike that of Buddhism. If God is Wisdom, Truth, and Love, then Wisdom, Truth, and Love must be sought in all things. I see them in my saints everyday.

Happy Easter!

Dashboard Buddha: Jon Stewart Edition

"Jesters do oft prove prophets.”

--Regan, King Lear Act V, Scene III

Fig.1 American Buddha?

I read somewhere that to take the Buddhist path requires developing a sense of humor. Humor helps you let go of pride, laughter erodes ego. Obviously, that went a long way with me. Laughter is my drug of choice. I laugh so heartily and consistently every morning and evening watching my favorite shows that my sister’s quaker parrot learned to perfectly imitate my chortles of joy. If I don’t get boisterous at least once a day, I feel stagnant. Heart half-full. If I can laugh all the way to enlightenment, then show me the way.

Jon Stewart has said in a few interviews that a person’s sense of humor only goes as far as their ideology. He explains that sometimes people come up to him and say they love his show and think he’s hysterical except for the time when he made a joke about global warming. Or abortion or foreign policy or last night’s episode of American Idol.

The Buddha says “Attachment causes suffering.” People get offended about things they have a personal affinity for, their attachment to it sucks out all the humor, and they suffer in the form of anger or resentment.

Why do Creationists want to discredit evolution so much? Why do scientists roll their eyes at the idea of intelligent design? Why do Man U fans verbally abuse Chelsea fans at football games? Why did I despise Tina Fey with relish when I heard she dissed Jon Stewart even though it was clearly taken out of context and she doesn’t actually harbor any ill will toward the man in any shape or form except perhaps a bit of envy that he’s so much more iconoclastic and clever and influential than she?


Fig.2 Rescue me from ignorance

Each party feels that the Other holds sacred certain ideas that encroach upon beliefs. Our beliefs, which we hold so dear, are very personal and we perceive them as an extension of ourselves. If someone attacks our beliefs, it’s an attack on our own existence.

As self-proclaimed “equal opportunity satirists,” Jon and his Daily Show crew have ripped into everything. Nothing is sacred except the almighty Laugh. He’s the classical court jester: the only person (simply by virtue of being the Fool) allowed to call out the King by poking comedic holes in his actions and policies. The Fool has very little ego and frequently depreciates himself with pratfalls, laughter, and general tomfoolery. He doesn’t care about his reputation.


Fig.3 Make fun of thyself

A speaker on the Path of the Ekayana podcast once concluded that Buddhism has a joke at its heart. One of the speaker’s teachers—one who always seemed to have a little smirk on his face—said that when you become enlightened (that is, once you don’t care about ego), you get all the jokes. Ultimately, that’s what Buddhism is: getting all the jokes. Everyone should aspire to be the Fool.

That said, everyone should care.

I wasn’t intending to sound cryptic. The best things in Buddhism come in Yoda koans.

The Fool, in fact, does care. He may even care more than anyone else. The trick is to hold that caring like an egg in the grip of the mind. He holds it gently and considers it in its entirety. He holds it long enough to find the flaws and cracks, then remembers that the egg is not an extension of himself. He is not the egg. He is not the anger or worry or disgust. The egg is there to spur the insight to learn or to take action... or make a joke.


Fig.4 All in a jester's day's work

The Buddha once told his monk buddies that they should use his teachings as a raft they leave behind as soon as it’s fulfilled its usefulness. You don’t haul a raft out of the river to cross a desert. The raft would be heavy and would just drag behind you and people would question your sanity. Similarly, if the Fool continues to carry the egg, it starts to rot and people tend to avoid him and his odoriferousness.

But the Fool is no fool. He extracts the joke, then promptly tosses the egg away. It smashes against the wall and everyone laughs. We laugh at impermanence because we inherently know that it’s silly to think anything lasts forever. We laugh at our false perception that an egg can survive being thrown at the wall. We laugh at our false perception that our problems will never end.

Laughter is a little piece of enlightenment, and if Jon Stewart teaches us nothing else, it's that fact.


Fig.5 Simpsonified

The Amish got it goin' on

“You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lip.”
-Amish proverb


Fig.1 All work and some play makes an Amish boy

The Amish don’t have podcasts. Can you believe that shit? I would love to hear the serene tones of Pennsylvania Dutch accents expound upon quilting techniques and tips on how to avoid tourists trying to take their photographs.

If you’ve seen Witness, you’ve seen half of what decent pop culture has to offer regarding the Amish. Devil’s Playground is the other half, and it’s illuminating cinema to say the least. It’s a documentary about the tradition of rumspringa, the time in an Amish teenager’s life when they are allowed to explore and experience the “English” world outside their insulated farming communities. The purpose of this is related to the old Anabaptist/Mennonite belief that a baby cannot be properly baptized. A person has to make a willful, adult decision to have communion with God, so the kids are allowed to see what their options are before being encouraged to return and focus on entering the community.

Devil’s Playground first outlines the basics of Amish Mennonite life, then follows around a handful of Amish kids on their rumspringa. During this time, wide-eyed kids go out to parties, dance and drink too much, drive around in cars, and sometimes take drugs. Very few decide that the outside life is for them, reflecting the high retention rate (between 80-90%) among the Amish denominations. Pretty awesome for a group who don’t include medicare or any government benefits whatsoever. The super-fast barn-raising thing, though… FEMA would’ve benefited from utilizing that sort of community work ethic.

Fig.2 Harrison Ford is too sexy for his pockets

The Amish don’t join the military, but they don’t apply for Social Security benefits either. No phones, electricity, or fancy clothes. They’re as “off the grid” as anyone can get. On the surface, the rules against things as banal as buttons seem odd, but what I found most appealing about the Amish is their sound reasoning behind everything they do or don’t do. Shirt pockets aren’t allowed because there’s the possibility you can put a flower or other pretty trinket in there, which can lead to pride. The ego-loathing Buddhist in me can’t argue with that logic.

Another thing is that they’re willing to make very small accommodations when new technology comes along. Gas-powered tilling machines, for example, are allowed in some Amish communities, but they’ll strip the wheels of the rubber tires because the rubber makes working the fields too easy and a sudden increase in ease could lead to laziness and lack of appreciation for hard work. They don’t have phones in their houses because it decreases sense of community by reducing face-to-face communication. Phones are also looked upon as an intrusion of the outside world, which interrupts daily life. I couldn’t agree with that one more. Being Amish is almost worth it not to have telemarketers call ten minutes into every DVD you start watching.

Those Amish DVD players, by the way, fueled by the alcohol they don’t drink.

Fig.3 Light switches: overrated

Technology jokes aside, the Amish have got it goin’ on. They are old school devoted Christians. They live the holy life to a T. You remember how they handled that schoolhouse shooting in Lancaster County in ‘06? They not only thought no ill of the guy who killed five of their young daughters and injured five more, they went to his home and comforted his widow and family. I bow to the Amish. They get it. They know how to live a life of purpose: to make the most awesome peanut butter pie on the planet. Okay, that’s not their entire life’s pursuit, but if you’ve ever been to Yoder’s restaurant in Sarasota, you might be convinced it is.

Fig.4 They do believe in watching cable

Whenever I see my father operate one of his numerous coffee machines, the bit of Amish in me rears its simple head. He has this one multi-purpose monster that makes lattes, espresso, and regular coffee, all through the inclusion of an extravagant quantity of little plastic “pods” filled with perfectly pre-measured coffee grounds and powdered milk. It’s fast and easy and looks so Star Trek-like with its futuristic minimum brain-power procedure. Juxtaposed against my old-school pour-boiling-water-into-a-cup-and-add-tea-leaves-and-wait-for-five-minutes breakfast ritual, his method of caffeine intake appears insanely wasteful. Tastes great, I’ll be the first to admit, but anti-Amish.

If we happen to be in the kitchen at the same time at the morning hour, I repeat my Amish-inspired mantra, “If it’s too easy, it’s not worth doing.”


Fig.5 True rebellion

This didn’t apply to my orchid-avoidance in my gardening activities, though. I wrote them off as too high-maintenance and I prefer the relatively well-adjusted African violets in my bathroom. That is, at least, until my sister gifted me three beautiful orchids that I have managed to care for so well that I coaxed a flower spike out of one of them in only five months. And guess what? It was totally worth it. I am addicted to the motherly kind of pride I get whenever a spike appears on one of my orchids, and witnessing the blooming bud weeks later is more sweet than the iced tea from Texan Wal-Marts.

Now I’m full of pride. Crap. I will make up for it by ridding myself of buttons.

We all take the rubber off our tractor wheels in our own ways—I make fancy tea the long way and my Dad prefers to sketch his interior design drawings by hand instead of with some expensive computer software—but we mostly leave the tires on in everyday situations. We’re Americans, after all. Not that the Amish aren’t Americans, but they may be too good at Christianity.

Vegan Week

"In the strict scientific sense we all feed on death - even vegetarians."
-Mr. Spock, Star Trek, "Wolf in the Fold"

Fig.1 Have you hugged a chicken today?

One sunny Floridian January Saturday, I drove up to Gainesville to hang out with my friend Casey and meet his boyfriend Joseph for the first time. We checked on the community events for the day and unanimously decided to attend the Hoggetown Medieval Festival. Of course, we had to find a place to eat beforehand, since Joseph is vegan and ren faires are not well known to serve up anything more vegan than giant roasted turkey legs. Luckily, it’s as easy to find a vegan-friendly eatery in a college town as it is to find a coffeehouse in a college town. At the fest, while perusing the numerous vendor tents drinking our mead (vegan!) and scoffing at the bevy of overwrought Scottish accents floating into our ears, theology got injected into the conversation. I have no idea how.

“I consider veganism my religion,” he said.

“Really?”

“Lots of people write in their religion as veganism on the census.”

Veganism is a religion? I’m so there.

Fig.2 They also call loved ones "Agave nectar" instead of "Honey"

Thus, Vegan Week was born. Now, I can do Vegetarian Week standing on my head. Since I started doing Buddhism, I’ve been observing Vesak--the holiday that celebrates the birth, enlightenment, and nirvana of Gautama Buddha--by avoiding meat for the week leading up it. Plus, I renounce meat on full and new moons. And I don’t tend to eat meat all that much anyways.

I’m not addicted to meat, is what I’m saying.

But veganism is a lot of work. I spent a few weeks beforehand researching how vegans sidestep and tip-toe around consuming animal products. Mulling over concepts like incorporating organic alfalfa sprouts, fermented soy tofu, and textured vegetable protein to meals, I paused the way people do when they know they’ve just stepped in dogshit and don’t want to move for fear of hearing that aromatic moist sucking sound you get when you lift your sneaker. But when I picked up my foot and started walking again, collecting recipes that sounded exotic and tasty, I found there was no unpleasant odor clinging to my sole.

Sure, I couldn’t eat anything from the box of Godiva chocolates I had just gotten for Valentine’s Day or sprinkle grated Parmesan cheese on my beloved Italian dishes or dump a little whole milk in my chai tea every morning, but I was going to survive. If it’s good enough for Emily Deschanel (girlcrush!), then it’s good enough for me.

I’m addicted to dairy products, I guess is what I’m saying.

Fig.3 I count broccoli myself

My sister volunteered to take the vegan plunge along with me, so, armed with a list and some recipes, we went to Publix and the Green Bean organic market to gather supplies. We surprised ourselves at how quickly the flip-the-box-to-parse-the-ingredients-list obligation instilled itself into everyday life. I would zero in on the tiny type and wag my finger at any evidence that animals sacrificed their lives or comforts in the making of that product. Whey? Exploits milk cows. Egg whites? Exploits chickens. Honey? Exploits bees. Non-dairy creamer powder? Contains milk derivatives. “Non-dairy” my ass.

We got soy yogurt and soy milk, which we’ve had before and generally enjoy. We made sure to avoid butter and only use olive oil or corn oil for cooking (again, not a big issue). We’re already big fans of nearly every variety of beans (fava, by the way, look and taste like cockroaches, FYI), so we made hummus to use as a sandwich spread for lunches. We also picked up some things we had to learn to prepare, like tofu, bean sprouts, seitan and tempeh.

We had Portobello mushroom Parmesan on spaghetti with crunchy fried tempeh instead of meat crumbles. I made veggie burritos, tofu-cashew curry, and even discovered that vegan brownies taste even more chocolatey than regular ones. Tofutti ice cream, though, is a sad excuse for dessert, sorry to say. And Joseph warned me against “vegan cheese” which not even he would touch. In the end, we survived just fine. It was a challenge, but we came out of it better for doing it, and we learned some new favorite recipes (vegan waffles ROCK) that we’d happily eat outside of Vegan Week.

When our little experiment concluded, I decided that I could never deny my inherent foodie sensibility and significantly limit my intake of the myriad dishes this world has to offer my widely varied palate, but I am apt to expand my meatless options and explore the tastes of vegan cooking. It's always fun to try new recipes, and it's just plain good karma.

Fig.4 Contrary to popular myth, vegan food does not taste like this

One of Joseph’s favorite Simpsons episodes, appropriately enough, is “Lisa the Vegetarian,” in which Lisa realizes that the only difference between the lamb at the petting zoo and the lamb chop for dinner is that one spent two hours in the broiler. Her refusal to dissect an earthworm and inquiries into school lunch policies triggers Principal Skinner into screening an educational video from the Meat Council for the class. Troy McClure gives a little boy a tour of the beef industry, showing off the high-density feedlots and the killing floor of a slaughterhouse, leaving the little boy trembling and emotionally disturbed. When the video is over, the class is treated to a pile of tripe to snack on.

In all my life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more masterful evisceration of the beef industry, much less satirized in a wildly popular television show. Read Fast Food Nation or watch Food Inc., and you’ll admit that The Simpsons didn’t exaggerate at all.

At one point in the Meat Council video Lisa is force-fed, Troy McClure displays a chart of the food chain. The image is a drawing of a few dozen wild animals, all with arrows pointing straight at the human drawn in the center, proving that eating meat is totally normal and just part of the natural order of things. And if we're totally honest with ourselves, you have to agree with Mr. Spock on this. Things have to die so we can survive.

This is not propaganda. Humans are omnivores and have evolved to eat both flora and fauna. Our cranial capacity developed as a result of hunting animals, which takes a lot more brain power than picking berries. If our ancestors didn’t eat meat, we wouldn’t be half as smart as we are today. Smart enough, in fact, to make choices about what we cram in our mouths. Vegan Week taught me my own gustatory boundaries and how to explore them, and while I may not be cut out for a completely animal-free diet, I am certainly more aware of how to be educated and judicious about what I consume.

Awareness is what distinguishes an enlightened mind. Christians are working to be aware of Jesus’ love. Muslims practice to be aware of the will of God. Jews believe it’s a duty to be aware of God’s presence. Hindus are occupied with being aware of the divine within each person. Vegans try their best to be aware of our connection to all living things and choose to treat them with the same respect we give to our human race.

That's as good a religion as any.


Fig.5 I agree

The Buddha is my homeboy

There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophies. My brain and my heart are my temples; my philosophy is kindness.
--His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama


Fig. 1 Dharma punk

There are as many slight variations to the Buddha’s life story and initial enlightenment as there are schools of thought, and technically, since there are as many schools of thought as there are people who perceive them, and all can be considered equally valid, I’ll equally do no justice to all except one: Mine.

Siddartha Gautama was born into a ruling Hindu family in India around the fifth century BCE. His mother Mahamaya had a dream that a white elephant entered her womb through a slit in her right side. Everyone she told about this dream flipped out, saying the kid was either going to be a super awesome king or an enlightened being. While she was pregnant, she was traveling to her parents’ home and gave birth along the way, popping out a perfectly clean baby who started walking only moments later with flowers blooming under each footstep he took while devas(minor gods) sang his praises… until they had to change his first diaper.

Sid grew up with all the lavish comforts of a great prince and was completely sheltered from the outside world right up until his adulthood. His father made sure Sid never saw anyone grow old, get sick or die. Sid grew up, got married, had a kid, and one day decided to cruise around the kingdom outside the palace walls in his chariot, to you know, survey all that would be his one day… other than the curtains. I imagine the historic event of “The Four Sights” unfolded not unlike an episode of Jeeves and Wooster.


Fig. 1 Hugh & Stephen are enlightened beings

“Oy, Chandaka,” Sid said, pointing at a man on the street as they drove by. “Who’s that?”

Chandaka, the long-suffering and worldly valet, calmly answered with a polite British accent, “That would be an old man, Sir.”

Sid cringed at the man’s wrinkles and sluggish pace, saying, “Is that normal?”

Chandaka said, “Yes, Sir. All people grow old.”

Next, Sid pointed at a dude face down in the gutter, covered in oozing sores. “Ugh! Who’s that?”

“That’s a sick man, Sir.”

Sid shook his head in disgust. “What’s that all about?”

Chandaka said, “All people get sick from disease, Sir.”

Sid pointed at a corpse on the ground and Chandaka rolled his eyes.

“That’s a dead person, Sir. People tend to die.”

“Ewwww,” Sid said. Then he saw a guy in robes sitting under a tree. “And what about him?”

“That’s an ascetic, Sir. They take a vow of poverty and walk from village to village meditating and learning sacred scripture.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad,” Sid said, scratching his chin. He held up a finger and said, “Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

“Your father won’t be very chuffed, Sir.”

“Forget him!” Sid blurted. “I’m doing it!”

That very night, Sid kissed his sleeping wife and son goodbye and set off into the forest, shedding his royal robes and donning dodgy rags. For six years he wandered around, picking up some flunkies along the way. They all tramped around, eating things no more nutritious than Altoids and enduring the harshest conditions. It was said that Sid once meditated in a circle of fire in the middle of summer, bringing new meaning to the phrase “schvitzing your toochis off.”

Though he was a Hindu who believed in the Hindu pantheon, the enlightened Buddha never really talked about God or gods in general. As far as he was concerned, the Supreme Whatever couldn’t free humans from suffering to save the world(literally), and no compendium of creation stories or polytheistic parables was going to help. Sid made it his mission to find out how to stop suffering if it killed him, and it almost did.

Sid came so close to death from starvation that he realized that he wasn’t a fan of dying, so he resolved to give his body the necessary sustenance it needed for the sake of finding the Truth. He ate one grain of rice and his mendicant buddies said, “Awe, forget you, man. You fell off the wagon. We’re outta here.”

Dissed and abandoned, Sid sat under a tree and meditated for a long time. When he was on the verge of enlightenment, Mara (the deva of wordly temptation) arrived with his armies to try and seduce Sid into staying in samsara, this imperfect human realm of existence.

“Come on, man, you know you wanna make love to my hordes of sexy ladies for all time,” Mara said.

Sid just sat and shook his head. “What’s the point? They’ll all be dead someday.”

“Oh yeah, well my attacking elephants will change your mind!”

Sid just smiled and touched the earth, calling up the earth goddess as witness to his hundreds of past lifetimes filled with good deeds.

Sid smiled and said to the earth, “Hey, baby, show Mara how cool I am.”

The goddess then happily wrung out her long hair, which was soaked with the water of Sid’s meritorious actions, and washed away all Mara’s armies.

Fig. 2 Boo-yah!

Upon his rejection of Mara and further meditation for three more nights, Sid became the bodhisattva formerly known as Siddartha Gautama and awakened as The Buddha—“enlightened one.” The ten thousand world systems shook, he saw all his past lives, he saw everyone else’s and their brothers’ past lives, and he gained the knowledge of the causally conditioned workings of reality. It’s like getting a One Million-Up in Donkey Kong. Plus omniscience.

But there was no Game Over screen. Buddha was enlightened, and he escaped the cycle of re-birth, but he was still dwelling in this world.

So what was next for the Big B?

Spread the word.

The first thing he did was track down his old peeps. They were all sitting around, thinking to themselves, “We’ll show him to eat rice. We’ll just sit here and ignore him as he swaggers by.” As the Buddha approached, they couldn’t resist the plainly apparent aura of love and compassion emanating from him.

“Hey man, what’s up?” one said.

The Buddha held up his hand and said, “My friend, call me the Tathagata (one who has gone onto the path of enlightenment).”


Fig. 3 Peeps in the park

He sat down and rapped with them, conducting the “first turning of the Dharma wheel” right there in Deer Park, not far from Varanasi. He told everyone the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path and continued to travel India for a 45-year tour before he merged with the infinite and finally attained nirvana. The Dhammapada, The Buddha’s Greatest Hits, sold like hot chapatiya bread.

No one has to believe this story is true to benefit from the Buddha’s teachings. I love the story, especially the part about the earth being witness to all deeds. It’s the Pagan within me. Yes, it’s a fantastic story full of faith-testing elements of miracles and moral themes, but I’m not going to be punished in some unfathomably scorching piece of real estate for not insisting it’s the absolute truth. I don’t feel an ounce of cosmic guilt for what I believe or don’t believe about dinosaurs or evolution or intelligent design.

The Buddha couldn’t care less what I believe. I could believe in Jesus, Vishnu, Allah, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster and the Buddha would say, “If the sandal fits.” I’m leaning toward the pasta, by the way. It’s the Italian in me. The Gospel of the FSM is very mouth-watering.


Fig. 4 Yes, I have

The Buddha just hopes I listen and seriously meditate on some stuff, then only use what works. The Dharma teachings are like pennies in the change tray sitting next to the cash register at the Circle-K: take one, leave one, whatever. A penny ain’t worth much until you use it to buy gas. You can quote scriptures till your vocal cords snap, but they only gain worth when they’re applied to your life.

Proud To Be Pagan

“This religion is not a joke. We are not what you think we are from looking at TV. 
We are real. We laugh, we cry. We are serious. We have a sense of humor.
 You don't have to be afraid of us. We don't want to convert you. And please don't try to convert us. 
Just give us the same right we give you—to live in peace.
 We are much more similar to you than you think.”
--Margot Adler

Fig.1 Scared yet?

Everything I ever needed to re-learn about witches I learned from Hollywood AND the people denouncing Hollywood. How many dozens of depictions of witches and witchcraft have I seen in movies and TV? About a hundred dozen more negative ones than positive (or even remotely true) ones. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been bombarded with images and portrayals of evil witches in Disney movies, ugly witches in horror movies, bitchy witches, crazy witches, nasty witches, hungry witches who eat little children, and stupid witches in cartoons. They’re always female, they’re always plotting against the hero, they’re always wild and extreme. A “good witch” was an anomaly, not the norm.

I know America doesn’t like to be accused of flatly discriminating against a religious group by disseminating profoundly unverified and monolithic propaganda in pop culture, but it sure as hell is guilty of it when it comes to paganism. I know why: “unbelievers” have long been held up as the “dark opposing force” of Christianity throughout history. Ancient indigenous pagan peoples in Europe were relatively disorganized compared to the rising Christian population and conquest was a two-fold strategy: seize the land and convert the people. So it went for hundreds of years.

America today is by no means the homogenous “Christian Nation” many people insist upon, but its cultural influences are dominated by Christian views. Naturally, pejorative definitions of anything pagan are to be expected, and are usually informed by casual ignorance rather than outright hatred. The fear of pagans and paganism isn’t fear of evil so much as it is the fear of the unknown, and there is plenty that people don’t know about pagans, and plenty of pagan things that people engage in but don’t even know it.

That’s why I was especially keyed up to study pagan traditions. I knew that watching Harry Potter movies and Supernatural on CW wasn’t quite enough.


Fig.2 I'm here for the sexiness, not accurate portrayals of witchcraft

Broadly defined, the archaic use of the term “paganism” includes anything outside the Abrahamic-based faiths, which is pretty damned broad. Hinduism, Zoroastrianism, Jainism, Shamanism, Taoism, Native American religions, Wicca, Vodou, various world folk religions and Buddhism fall under that category. Basically, anything that doesn’t involve Moses or Jesus or Mohammad is pagan. That’s some group!

Obviously, this is the strict Western perspective. The modern definition accepted in a comparative religions course would be any earth-based religion that may or may not include shamanistic, animistic, pantheistic or polytheistic aspects. That eliminates much of the major “world” religions previously included in the list. But it includes ancient “dead” religions such as those that worshiped the Greek, Norse, Roman and Egyptian gods. The rule of thumb, so far as I can tell, is that what we may consider pagan is any religion that does not include adherence to a precise dogma or a specific scripture. There can be oral traditions and stories, or general guidelines as to the meanings behind practices, but there is no organized collection of progenitorial texts proposing to be the “word of God” or divinely inspired by a deity.

When I think of paganism, I have a whole set of images and concepts defined mostly by American Neopagans (specifically, Wiccans), because they’re the ones making all the awesome podcasts and websites. Wicca, while relatively new on the scene (it gained popularity only within the last century), has its roots in ancient pagan belief systems, drawing spiritual figures and ideas from all manner of sources.

Neopagan-based moral beliefs work on an honor system. Because they don’t have any official scriptures to read and get irrationally adamant about, they function by the Golden Rule or the “Wiccan Rede” which basically says, “If it does no harm, do your will.” Therefore, anybody conducting “black magic” or evil hoodoo should know that they’re in for a world of hurt.

Fig.3 A helpful diagram for your altar planning

Wiccan practice is definitely a far cry from anything I see on Supernatural. As much as I adore that show (that’s a whole other blog post for later), I know that the only thing they get right is that paganism exists.

A ritual (which may include spell-casting and meditation) is rich with symbolism, employing elements and objects that may evoke fear in some people: fire, a knife, potions, a wand, etc. But each one is represented on an altar for a reason. A candle flame banishes darkness and can be different colors according to the god or goddess the practitioner chooses. The blade (athame) is double-sided and represents the fusion of male and female. It's not necessarily sharp and it's even understood that if the athame is ever used to draw blood, it must be destroyed. The chalice filled with wine is the female womb, a live-giving symbol. The wand is used to focus energy during a ritual. That broom in the corner is not for riding, but for sweeping clean the circle in which a ritual is to take place. The pentagram contains five points for each of the basic elements: fire, earth, air, water, spirit.

Neopagans worship the Earth, the god and the goddess, respect nature and the spirit within all living things. They value life and freedom and expression. They’re all around us, too.

I wanted to post this entry now because it’s Renaissance Faire season here where I live in old snow-free Florida. I’ve been to the Hoggetowne Medieval fest already, which I’ve gone to for three years in a row with my Gainesville friends. I’m preparing to attend the big Tampa Bay Renaissance Festival in March like I do every year as well. It’s a family tradition at this point, and a deliriously enjoyable one as well.

Fig.4 Fairies keep it in the family

It’s a place where regular Joes mingle amongst everyday regular Joe Pagans without any fear whatsoever on either side. This is not to say that all Wiccans or pagans love Ren Faires or that the people who work there are representative of all pagans. That would be like saying ALL sci-fi nerds love Star Trek and dress up like Spock for sci-fi conventions. That is simply untrue and will probably get you mildly tongue-lashed if said within a ten-foot radius of a comic book store. Not by me, though, I love Star Trek (again, I'll save that for another post).

Based on the wares presented in many of the festival tents and booths--mugs & bowls painted with the names of sabbats, pentacle jewelry, cauldrons, chalices, even witches' hats (they have a sense of humor)--it’s pretty obvious that most the tenants are at least very familiar with pagan culture if they’re not pagan themselves. The art, jewelry, costumes, books, and various appurtenances of Neopagan and earth-based religions are ubiquitous… and completely inoffensive to the festival guests. Sure, they may find some of it fantastical and wild and odd, but it’s expected and generally accepted. The tradesmen themselves are as "out of the broom closet" as they can get at these gatherings, often dressed to the Medieval nines and more than happy to explain the significance of their trinkets.

It’s a breath of fresh (hay, pony, incense, and roasted turkey-leg infused) air.

As a backyard astronomer, I follow closely the movements of the moon and planets and stars. I love gardening and growing special herbs for my meals and teas. I love animals and especially birds for their beauty and idiosyncrasies. I love to meditate outdoors in the open air of nature, under the warmth of the sun. It's not difficult for me to understand many Pagan interests and beliefs. It’s not a stretch for me to recognize the sacred wisdom they seek in their practice. It may seem a stretch for others, and I understand that too. But if you've ever admired the stars, planted a flower, thanked God or the Universe for a beautiful day, or even celebrated Easter (bunnies and eggs are ancient pagan fertility symbols and "Eastre" is the goddess of the Spring), you know more about true paganism than you realize.

See you at the Faire! Blessed be!

When the saints come marching back

“Saints are the Sinners who keep on trying.”

--Robert Louis Stevenson


Fig.1 St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, New Orleans

The summer of 2004, I was in Gainesville taking my last required summer course so I could graduate one semester early in December. It was a fun class on one of my favorite subjects—Ancient Egyptian history—but there’s only so much hieroglyphics a girl can take, especially if it’s the only class you have with nothing else to do but sit around in your tiny closet of a dorm room the rest of the time. It was a particularly lonely summer.

Luckily, my buddy in nerdiness Elissa came to the rescue. At the time, she lived with her father not far from the campus and she’d break the boredom every so often, but one hot sticky July weekend, she outdid herself and spirited me off to New Orleans.

Her mother lived in Crestview in the Florida panhandle, so we stopped and slept there the first night, then woke up before dawn to make the three-hour car ride to Louisiana. Driving that stretch in her little blue Geo Metro, switching the air conditioning off just to give the little car enough juice to get over each hill, in the Vulcan heat of July in the American South… it was our obligatory college road trip, and we loved every moment.

We spent the daylight hours doing the tourist rounds in the French Quarter, with naught but iced café au laits the color of the Mississippi River and Styrofoam cups of cold beer to cool us down during our tour. It was a long walk filled with trinket stores, voodoo shops, Mardi Gras mask boutiques, the steamboat Natchez, gumbo-serving restaurants, and the St. Louis Cathedral—undoubtedly the most beautiful church I had ever stepped into in my life. Elissa, who had made the Crestview-to-New Orleans visit before with her mom, taught me the wonders of this new world that wasn’t so very far away.

Fig.2 Everyone loves a Boondock Saint

Over a year later, I was in Orlando for a nerd convention—this one the “ElfCon” of 2005, specifically catering to Lord of the Rings fans. Connie, Katrina and I stayed the night before the big day in the hotel, hanging out by the jacuzzi and sipping drinks from the poolside bar. It was to be our last big get together before Katrina moved out to Los Angeles to pursue her career in the TV biz, and we were having the time of our lives.

The morning of the day we were to get our photos taken with Elijah Wood—a massively spiritual event for us—we watched the news in the hotel room. The day before, a hurricane blew through the Keys, and we were worried it would turn north and cancel the convention. Instead, it headed into the Gulf of Mexico, and overnight, it exploded into a massive storm. Luckily, Florida was no longer in its path.

I remember knocking on the bathroom door as my friend was taking a shower and saying, “Hey, Katrina, you’re a Cat Five!”

“What?!” she said, her voice still noticeably shaky despite being muffled by the sound of running water.

“You’re a Cat Five!” I repeated.

She came out of the room and said, “I thought you said my cat died!”

Katrina was a Category Five. And as we walked from the room to the main convention hall of the hotel, the sky was overcast and drizzly, the clouds shaped like faded but distinct bands of a hurricane. It was so big that the weak outer bands covered Orlando even though it was headed straight for Louisiana.

Fig.3 Never again... we hope

June 2008, my sister and her husband invited me to help them move to Killeen, Texas, home of Fort Hood, where he would be stationed. We were to drive out over a few days, stopping in New Orleans for a break halfway through. I was to be their French Quarter tour guide.

Not only were we to grab our beignets and stroll Bourbon Street, we were on a mission—a mission to find saints.

A few weeks before this great road trip was to take place, I was listening to the Saintcast by podcaster Paul Camarata on my computer. He had an interview with Father James Martin about his book and being on TV. I just had to hear him discuss his impression of Stephen Colbert, and I got a little thrill from the interview. Having finished that very fascinating episode, I started in on another one, just to get a better sense of the podcast, whose goal it is to discuss the stories of a few saints in each episode and even go on trips to some of the pilgrimage sites associated with the saints. Some episodes consist of the audio “soundseeing” tour of the places Paul went.

In one episode, Paul interviewed the founder of SaintsforSinners.com—Rob Clemenz’s homespun operation to tell stories of the saints and sell hand-painted saints medals. It was a fairly successful little business based in New Orleans. When Katrina hit, all the medals were washed away, and he was resigned to give up on doing the website and practice law instead. But then he heard some stories from hurricane survivors who pulled up their bootstraps and didn’t give up on their homes and jobs and Rob changed his mind.

Fig.4 Our Lady of Perpetual Help

Today, a Saints for Sinners medal can be found around Bruce Springsteen’s neck, as well as The Tudors’ star Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. Even Paula Deen, the Butter Queen, has a medal. They seemed the perfect souvenir from New Orleans, and I told my sister we had to find them.

Addresses of medal-selling boutiques in hand, we set out for New Orleans. Of course, we were headed for the part of town least affected by Katrina, but I couldn’t help but see the big difference as we drove through the city, even compared to my memories from four years before.

Like a red welt left behind after getting slapped in the face, the damage from Katrina still lingered. It seemed that half the buildings and homes and roads I saw were still damaged and dilapidated, while the other half were brand new from being very recently rebuilt. Our arrival at the Superdome and Canal Street was like coming out of a half-baked virtual reality into an isolated sector of a fully-realized Second Life island. The French Quarter felt untouched. Standing on the boardwalk nearby Jackson Square, one would never know anything resembling the finger of God had ravaged the city to a degree that many people couldn’t imagine it ever being rebuilt and repopulated.

Fig.5 We are New Orleans

In the years following Katrina, I had seen much new coverage and documentaries on the storm’s effect on New Orleans, and contrasting those horrific images with the beautiful ones in my memory of the place was heartbreaking. Adding to that ache, the subject came up in a conversation at my work one day and someone casually tossed off a comment that the place was “sinful” anyway, that if any place deserved it, it was New Orleans.

Astonished at such callousness coming from an observant Christian woman, I tried to disabuse her of the ignorance behind that statement, enlightening her to the profound history and beauty of the city, of the God-fearing people who lived there, of the breathtaking St. Louis Cathedral where many worshiped. I had only seen one part of the city, but I saw enough to know that the world would be a lesser place to lose any part of New Orleans, a city built on its complexity of human experience.

Turns out it’s not hard to find saints in New Orleans. Sure, we had a few hitches in locating our medals in some boutique stores and we did eventually get some, but the real saints of New Orleans are the people who came back. Walking around the Quarter and seeing how many small businesses made the tough decision to start all over for the sake of their lives, for the sake of their hearts and souls, for the sake of their faith that they would resurrect their home so America could still count this jewel of a place in its vast collection… it became clear the real saints had never truly left.

There was no more appropriate souvenir to take home from NOLA than a Rob Clemenz medal. Mine may have a colorful depiction of St. Francis of Assisi on it, but it’s essentially a St. Clemenz medal, Patron Saint of Survivors.

Fig.6 We are the Saints

Dashboard Buddha: Conan O'Brien Edition

"Starbucks says they are going to start putting religious quotes on cups. The very first one will say,
'Jesus! This cup is expensive!'" --Conan O'Brien

Fig.1 Tao of Coco

We begin with a koan:

One day, a monk went to the Zen Master as he was sitting in his room one morning. The monk, who had spent several years at the monastery studying under the Zen Master, was finally allowed to speak to him alone. The Master was sitting alone, staring at the floor. The monk assumed he was in a meditative state and bowed, backing away to leave his Master alone.

"Come, sit down," the Zen Master said softly, his eyes never blinking. "What is it you wish to ask?"

The monk, thrilled to have this chance to ask a question of the Master, stepped back into the room and asked, "What can we expect from life?"

The Zen Master still stared at the floor in front of him. The monk walked over, hoping to get the Master's attention by taking a seat on the floor in front of him. The moment he sat down, he felt he had sat upon something. It squished under his bottom. He blushed, surprised.

The Zen Master said, "There is a burrito on the carpet."


Okay, it's not a real Zen koan. But if you've ever read a number of real koans, it's almost indistinguishable in its impenetrable, seemingly useless lesson in Zen technique. And I got the idea from Conan O'Brien.

Fig.2 Keep lookin' up

Conan, of course, has been on many peoples' minds lately. He's been in my heart for close to a decade. I taped him on VHS every night while at college. I named my parakeet after him. I lapse into snorting laughter whenever I watch him. My friend Elissa and I got to visit Studio 6A for a taping of Late Night and got to sit in the front row. So, my deeply emotional reaction (wallowing in grief) to his latest career issues (UNFAIR!) is to be expected. For a good chunk of my life, I hadn't gone more than a few weeks without seeing my Conesie Bone on a regular basis. I had taken it for granted that I'd get my fix for another ten years or so without interruption. I was looking into an abyss bereft of the random, Harvard-trained childishness I'd come to love.

Naturally, I focused my regular meditations on my specific suffering. It's not often that one of my beloved TV gods of choice encounters a crisis, so I was in uncharted waters of concern and helplessness.

After a week of diligent focus during my meditation sessions everyday, a lightbulb popped in my brain. I remembered the Buddha's words:

"All conditioned things are subject to change."

Fig.3 Everything changes... except Conan's crazy hair

One of the most important teachings in all of Buddhism is the truth of impermanence, and that it only sucks if you expect anything different.

"Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get," Conan said in his farewell speech.

Buddhist monk and teacher Thich Nhat Hanh once said,"We should not complain about impermanence, because without impermanence, nothing is possible."

If a flower bud remains a bud, it won't show the beauty of the bloom. If the Ancient Egyptian pharaohs were still around, I doubt the pyramids would be half as wonderfully mysterious. If Conan remained at Late Night, we wouldn't know the epic gags and elaborate comedy bits of his reign on The Tonight Show.

Conan's own eccentric comedy style constantly gives us what is least expected, and it's fun, not tragic: a Fed-Ex Pope, a Gun-totin' NASCAR-driving Jesus, a Rocket Raccoon, absurd, cartoonish predictions for the Year 2000, If They Mated pairings of beautiful people that turn out the most hilariously hideous children, State Quarters that commemorate embarrassing events and people. And after all that, the Masturbating Bear jumps out.

Fig.4 Driving the desk straight into my heart

Once upon a time, I clearly remember Conan pointing out a certain foodstuff on his floor. "OH MY GOD! There's a burrito on the carpet!" he exclaimed. I don't recall the context, but I apparently thought it sufficiently hysterical enough to quote it in my LiveJournal several years ago.

That burrito, in its deliciously arbitrary location, is something special. It's strange, but useful and nutritious. But if we are not mindful of it, if we lose our focus and overlook it, either because it's so common or because it's simply unexpected, we'll sit on it.

A monk accidentally sitting on a burrito is funny because we realize the monk's mistake in not paying attention. We laugh because we see ourselves in the monk: distracted, unmindful of surroundings, sitting in an uncomfortable position atop a burrito. Who can say they haven't done something just as silly in their life?

As the last week of Tonight Show episodes aired one by one before my eyes, each conveyed a greater sense of scarcity than the last, until the nacre of rarity coated the last moments in a pearlescent lustre of awesome. Would the January 22nd episode of the Tonight Show With Conan O'Brien have been as precious without its limited edition status?

Impermanence teaches us beauty. If we would just look at every episode in that way, all would be precious. If we could look at everything in life that way, all would be precious.

Conan--who is arguably the one person who most realizes this whole NBC debacle is NOT the end of the world--has taught me to be humble, especially in the face of the unexpected. His self-deprecating manner and clownish antics have endeared him to me in a way no arrogant comic ever could.

The Buddha said:

"To the extent that a fool knows his foolishness, He may be deemed wise."

And the Universe knows how many bajillions of times Conan has said, "I'm an ass."

"Isn't that right, Cactus Chef playing Billy Joel's 'We Didn't Start the Fire' on a flute?"

Sure is, Conan. Sure is.

Fig.5 Celebrate the unexpected