Cheap incense

I was walking down the street, minding my own business, when WHAM! I was hit upside the nose with a brick wall of incense. It was streaming out of a new age shop like it was late for prayer circle.

Certain places, I've come to realize, all have the same Eau de NO: head shops, belly dancing boutiques, new age bookstores, a free outdoor concert. Whether in stick or cone form, cheap incense smells like a love child sired by a hippie’s VW van and someone who’s all up in Bikram yoga’s grill.

Incense is used for meditation or ritual. Fine. I grew up with heavy incense being swung around in church, but at least it had a lot of room to dissipate. But when you are lighting up sandalpoop and franknoncense in your chockablock shop, I'm not feeling any closer to the Divine. I am, however, edging closer to unconsciousness.

Please stop buying your incense in bulk, else I might have to beat you with a bundle of joss sticks, all the while breathing through my mouth, of course.

And I'm not just blowing smoke.

Related posts: patchouli and namaste.

(For lovely, subtle Japanese incense, try Asakichi in San Francisco's Japantown. They wrap even the smallest bundle—I like their cedar incense—in beautiful paper.)

(photo: buddhagrams.com)

Chai

Is it tea? Is it coffee? Is it just plain woo woo pretentious? What the fuck are you, chai?

If you’re not living in or touring India, chances are you are drinking a powdered version of this spiced milk tea, or even a bastardized chai/coffee hybrid. For instance, I just discovered that a dirty chai doesn’t involve extra olive juice, but a shot of espresso. Uh...

But it’s not just the chai itself. It’s the knobs who drink it. Somehow sipping on this strange brew, these exotic creatures feel enlightened and superior, much like I imagine Tom Cruise and his Scientology cronies feel after a good L. Ron Hubbard jamboree. Doctoring up their chai with a dollop of soy milk and a soupçon of cardamom, these wannabe Siddharthas eat, pray, and love throwing the stinkeye at my mocha choca latte and silently judging, all the while saying crap like “namaste, my friend” to my face while reaching for their heart center.

I want to punch these nirvana in a coffee cup-seeking sultans of swill in their third eye, until they're blind.

(I must admit that I do love this DIY chai recipe, if only for the illustration).

(photo: bodhileaftrading.com)

Mercury in retrograde

I’ve been dreading this day for awhile. By most accounts, goddamned Mercury goes into retrograde today and ends May 30. What this means is that Mercury appears to us earthlings to slow down and move backwards for several weeks.

It also means that I’m fucked.

I am often suspicious of anything with a whiff of woo-woo, but over the years, I’ve learned to heed the power of this punk-ass planet. E-mails go missing, interpersonal communication goes down the crapper, misunderstandings abound, business deals fall through, my motherfucking motherboard dies. It’s about this time that I turn to the bottle.

How this little bitch planet wields so much impish power is beyond me and people a whole lot higher on the intellectual food chain. The one thing I do know is that this ass-illogical shit has gots to stop. I think a call to NASA is in order. Maybe if we can hit it hard enough with a monster missile, we can change its orbit and stop the insanity.

But until we make that happen, back your files up…seriously.

(photo: zamzamworld.com/science_space_2.htm)

Dreamcatchers

Outside of the reservation and 1979, a dreamcatcher is just plain dumb. Hung on a rearview mirror or as living room art, it deserves to be punched in its sinewy face. What made you think this was a good idea? Did you powwow with a shaman in a sweat lodge? Were you trippin’ on peyote with Val Kilmer?

While I was curiously drawn to the feathered roach clips on sale at the Berrien County Youth Fair back in the 80s, I backed away. I didn’t smoke the wacky tobackey and my name wasn’t Stands with a Pan-Indian Tchotchke in her Fist (although that would have been so fucking rad). Even then, I knew dreamcatchers sucked it hard.

Dreamcatchers were traditionally hung over a bed to protect papooses from nightmares. Um, sorry to break it to you, you woo-woo kookaloo, but you just conjured up the bad dream that is me. While listening to some sweet nature sounds with a backing woodlands flute, I am going to tie a stick to your southwestern Spirograph and thrash you within an inch of your life.

The American Indian wasn’t crying over pollution in that 1970s ad; he saw the writing—and your ridiculous dreamcatcher—on the wall.

(By the way, I think women should start calling their vag their dreamcatcher. Think about it...)

(Photo: wikipedia)

Namaste

Every time I hear someone say "namaste," I want to beat them and their sustainable clothing with a rain stick. I mean, fine, say it at the end of yoga class…if you absolutely have to. But when I hear it outside of the ashram, it harshes my mellow. The likely culprits are people who get their kids hopped up on carob chips and let them run around Trader Joe's because they are "spirited."

Namaste means "The light in me honors the light in you." When I'm in shavasana (during my occasional foray into yoga) and I hear this, I throw up a little in my mouth. Laying on my back, well, you can imagine that this isn't a good thing. The light in me wants to knock your lights out or, better yet, reach in and rip out your heart chakra. Saying "namaste" doesn't make you enlightened, it just makes you a tool in an organic bamboo hoodie.

(Photo: powerfulintent.ning.com)