Busting Out the Yoga Pants

By Ed Staskus

Slightly less than 20% of everyone in yoga classes are men. That is sharply down from the 100% it was one hundred years ago. Since then the practice has been annexed by gals bending like pretzels. Even when they aren’t lithe and limber, they’ve fine-tuned in to the mental and physical health benefits of yoga.

The twist is that for thousands of years it was a men’s club. No women need apply. The idea of Daisy Dukes doing yoga was anathema. The prohibition was laughed out of the closet about fifty years ago. Now it’s a closet full of clothes with nothing to wear.

“I’ve been teaching yoga for over 25 years and I can’t believe how the number of men participating in yoga has not really increased,” says Yogi Aaron, director and master teacher at Blue Osa in Costa Rica.

When it comes to the practice nowadays, many men are like honey badgers. They just don’t care. Some of them have thought about it but never taken the first step. They don’t think it is intense hardcore challenging enough. The “no pain no gain” school of thought is still going strong. A few strong men, like Chuck Norris, do some yoga for flexibility and balance, even though they don’t need to, being Chuck Norris.

They don’t worry about anybody’s pantywaist deconstruction of the practice. They roll up their sleeves. They bust out the action pants.

The action movie star and martial artist never loses his balance in any posture. Balance loses to Chuck Norris. When he does inversions, he doesn’t go upside down. He tips the universe over. In honor of this feat the new 7th series in Ashtanga Yoga is called “Chuckitsa.” It cleanses every drop of lily liver from your body and soul.

“Many men have misconceptions about it,” says Gwen Saint Romain, a wellness instructor and registered yoga teacher at the Rex Wellness Center in Raleigh, N. Carolina.

“I think that one of the misconceptions is that it is always very gentle, meditative and mindful, that there aren’t physical benefits,” she says. “But it’s definitely not just meditating. Some yoga classes, like power yoga, are extremely rigorous, sweaty workouts. A lot of guys come to a yoga class for the first time because they are invited by a friend, a spouse or girlfriend. They find out quickly that yoga can be a very intense workout.”

Chuck Norris finds intense yoga classes right up his sleeve, although he doesn’t break out into a sweat about them, cool as a cucumber. “How many push-ups can you do in chaturanga?” he was asked. “All of them,” he said. He pulls his Action Pants on both legs at a time. The secret ingredient in Red Bull is Chuck Norris’s piss and vinegar.

The yoga entrepreneur Bikram Choudhury challenged him to 90 minutes of super-hot yoga in his LA-based “torture chamber.” He said it would make a man of him.

“I’ve got to tell you, partner, I once bet NASA a cold beer I could survive re-entry without a spacesuit,” Chuck told the Speedo-clad taskmaster.

“Nothing is impossible, believe me I know” said Bikram. “Girls hang all over me and thousands of people pay me thousands of dollars to tell them how to lock their knees, but that’s impossible.”

In respect for the ancient practice of yoga, an esteem he didn’t necessarily feel for the fitness guru, he let the comment slide.

When he pulled the space stunt a stark-naked Chuck Norris re-entered the earth’s atmosphere, streaking over 14 states, and reaching a temperature of 3000 degrees. He landed on his feet and ran two hundred miles to the nearest airport for a flight home. An embarrassed NASA was compelled to deliver a growler of ale to his front door.

When Bikram demanded he lock his knee in class, Chuck Norris stormed the big wig’s throne and put him in a headlock. He didn’t release Bikram until he had counted to infinity. The groupies in class got impatient, although Mrs. Bikram wasn’t even aware her husband hadn’t been home in a long time.

“From physique to mental health, yoga is one of the most beneficial practices in the world. Most Western yoga classes are dominated by women, but more and more men are starting to become interested in getting on the mat,” says Lanai Moliterno, a yoga instructor in Encinitas, California.

“A lot of men have jumped on board, have discovered the numerous benefits yoga can bring, physically, mentally, and spiritually. Enhanced strength? Injury prevention? Better sexual performance? Increased calm and focus? Who knew stretching and breathing could do all this?”

Chuck Norris agrees yoga is a steady hand to helping stay calm and focused, even though he has never not been calm and focused. When he goes target shooting, he always hits 11 out of 10 targets. With nine bullets. He always wins games of Connect Four in three moves. He wins every game of chess in only one move, a roundhouse kick to the face.

Although there was little confusion a hundred years ago about what and who yoga was for, the case for the practice today is a little more complex, especially in the mano a mano world.

“Years ago, just as Jay Cutler was ascending to the top of the bodybuilding world, he told me about a secret he’d recently begun to incorporate into his training,” says Steven Stiefel, an LA-based writer for health and fitness magazines.

“It was yoga! He credited his improved flexibility with his ability to train more efficiently and avoid injury. And then he won the Mr. Olympia title.

“Today, there are more yoga classes than ever, but a lot of people, men in particular, remain confused about what happens inside those classes and how they should feel about it. Is it stretching, meditation, some combination, or something else entirely? Could it be the secret to unlocking your tight hips and superhuman athletic potential, or will it just make you sprout a man bun and go all new age?”

You don’t want to get it wrong, unless you live in Brooklyn or San Francisco, in which case you’ll hit the nail on the head.

The only time Chuck Norris was ever wrong was when he thought he had made a mistake. His computer has no backspace button. He doesn’t make mistakes. Chuck Norris has done yoga and not gone new age or sprouted anything under his cowboy hat. He has cows in the back forty grilling his steaks for him.

Many weightlifters have added yoga to their fitness routine. There are several ways it can improve lifting, including increasing range of motion, reducing soreness, minimizing risk of injury, and fomenting correct posture.

Holding and releasing poses in yoga class relaxes tight muscles and encourages flexibility. Yoga draws oxygen into muscles. It flushes lactic acid. The practice enlivens balance and strengthens joints and smaller stabilizing muscles, helping prevent injury. Big men tend to be top-heavy. Core strengthening work, emphasis on the back, and chest and shoulder opener poses are instrumental at improving bearing and carriage.

There are many reasons why yoga might not be a good fit for many men, however. While it’s true their postures would probably improve, most men never have any trouble with back pain. What would they do with all the balance and flexibility they gained? Yoga sharpens focus, but men are fee-fi-fo focus fighters, anyway. Their heartrates and blood pressure are fine exactly where they are. It’s square enough yoga is a stress buster, but stress makes life more interesting. Busting out a mat is getting on the road to dullsville.

Nothing Chuck Norris does is ever dull. He can roundhouse kick his enemies yesterday. He sleeps with a night light because the dark is afraid of him. He can drive in Braille, and when he misspells a word, the Oxford English Dictionary changes the actual spelling of it.

Despite the best efforts of yoga promotors vendors marketers and merchandisers, there are still more gals than there are guys in classes. Studio owners and teachers say that the number of women to men is usually 80 to 20. Surveys by Yoga Journal have consistently found that the practice attracts far more womenfolk than menfolk.

Why don’t more men do yoga?

“My husband said he felt bored,” says Praneetha Akula, a Silver Spring, Maryland, resident who dragged her man to the studio.

Chuck Norris never gets bored, inside or outside a yoga studio. Getting bored is an insult to yourself. Chuck Norris’s head would explode if he ever insulted himself. Anybody else’s head, if they insulted him, would instantly explode just from the thought of it.

Maybe men shouldn’t bother doing yoga, unless they are like Chuck Norris, which is impossible. When he meditates, going inward, he finds a smaller tougher Chuck Norris inside himself.

“In a society that places people in convenient ticky-tacky boxes, it seems today’s yoga is clearly for women,” says Dr. Phil Maffetone, an endurance athlete, sports medicine clinician, and author of the “Big Book of Health and Fitness.”

Do real men do yoga?

“Knowing its potential value in health and fitness, various forms of yoga are something I have recommended over my career, to both men and women. But I don’t do it. Having tried various styles, there are more than 100 different types of yoga, I never enjoyed any of them,” he says.

“I get the same benefits of yoga, its scientific and perceived values, from other approaches, without the formality, the special clothes, or going anywhere. I wonder if men are turned off to things like chanting, Sanskrit terms for poses, cliché yoga music, and pretzel poses. Or, maybe men are too aggressive in their workout ethics to even try yoga, which might be the reason they are more often injured than women.”

On the other hand, maybe that’s exactly the reason more real men should get their get up and go butts down on the mat. Take a breath. Slow it down. Forget the finish line.

On top of that, it’s more manly than most men think. It was originally created designed practiced by men, taught by men, for men. It stayed that way for thousands of years. It was physically demanding enough in an age when everything was physically demanding. In the last half century women have crashed the party, which is all to the good.

Who wants to do yoga in a room full of dads, dudes, and varmints? Rooster Cogburn in tree pose would be a sight for sore eyes, but it would also be a sore sight.

Yoga makes everyone, women and men, better at what they do. If you’re flexible, it will help you build strength. If you’re strong as hell, it helps you find balance. Ethically, it grounds you in the Golden Rule. Mentally, it gives you a way to handle pressure and stress.

We can’t all be Chuck Norris. In fact, no one can be Chuck Norris. He once inhaled for 108 seconds – 108 million seconds. He has never read the Yoga Sutras. He stared them down until the Sutras squealed and told him everything he wanted to know. He would be the crazy best yoga teacher of all time. His classroom adjustments would never be forgotten by anyone, ever.

Since he could sail around the world in boat pose, if he ever wanted to, it wouldn’t hurt men to jump the Ship of Fools and join him on the USS Chuck Norris. But Chuck don’t care if you do, or not. Why should he? After all, when Chuck Norris does yoga, starting with sun salutations, the sun salutes him.

At the end of the day, yoga is about the self. Gird your loins and find some sunshine on the forward deck. Do your own warrior poses. Don’t worry about Chuck Norris. He’s the only man dead or alive who can divide by zero. He can take care of himself. Zero in on yourself.

Ed Staskus posts stories on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com and Cleveland Ohio Daybook http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”

Bomb City USA

By Ed Staskus

When I went to work as the night clerk at the Versailles Motor Inn on East 29th and Euclid Ave. in the mid 1970s, Cleveland, Ohio was the bomb capital of the country. There were 37 bombings in Cuyahoga County in 1976, including 21 in the city, making it tops in the United States, according to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

   “A bombing sends a real message. It commands a lot of attention,” said Rick Porello, an east side career police chief. “Danny Greene was said to have paid Art Sneperger, his main explosives guy, extra if the bombing generated news coverage. Art got paid a bonus if the thing got on television or in the newspapers.”

   The bomb guy made his own headlines in 1971 when, at the behest of Irish mobster Greene, he suddenly inadvertently found himself in hellfire while planting explosives in the car of the racketeer’s old friend and new enemy Mike Frato. Fumble fingers don’t pay.

   Six years later Danny Greene was blown up walking out of a dental office in Lyndhurst. The gangster paid cash, so the dentist ignored the sonic boom. The tooth fairy cancelled her gig that night.

   The bomb was in a Chevy Nova parked next to his Lincoln Continental. It was a Trojan Horse. When it went off, set off by remote control, the Nova, Continental, and Greene were reduced to a tangle of corn flakes. The coroner didn’t bother trying to put him back together.

   The Nova came from Fairchild Chevrolet in Lakewood. “We heard the owner of the car lot might have been involved,” said Bob Gheen. “The bomb was placed in the Nova and left next to Danny Greene’s Lincoln.” The Chevy  had been his father’s car. “They didn’t transfer the title out of my dad’s name. Rick Porello from the Lyndhurst Police Department showed up at our door on Saturday morning and drove us to identify the car. We had to answer several questions and that’s pretty much the last we heard of it.”

   I was taking classes at Cleveland State University but because I didn’t have a scholarship or any grants, and nobody would give me a loan, I had to pay the tuition fees and book costs myself. I was living in Asia Town, in a house on East 34th St, upstairs in a two-bedroom with a roommate, but even though I knew how to live on next to nothing, I needed a little to make the bills and more to pay for school.

   The Versailles Motor Inn was built in the mid-60s, meant to piggyback on the Sahara Motor Inn a few blocks away at East 32nd St., built in the early 60s. The Sahara wasn’t hiring, but the Versailles was, and I thought if it was like the Sahara, I was their young man for the job.

   All the rooms at the four-story Sahara featured a television, air conditioning, piped-in music, and your own dial phone, the first ones in northern Ohio. There were three presidential suites and three bridal suites. There was a heated swimming pool, a dance floor, and a patio on the second floor. There was a continental dining room with velvet armchairs and a starlight ceiling and there were four cocktail lounges. The waitresses wore Egyptian outfits, and the waiters wore fezzes. There were eight-foot paintings of Cleopatra, King Tut, and Queen Nefertiti in the lobby.

   Except that the Versailles had 150 rooms, exactly like the Sahara, that is where the resemblance ended. The Versailles had a bar restaurant, a coffee shop, and a lobby. It featured sunken pit seating in the lobby where nobody ever went. The lighting was bad. The front doors facing Euclid Ave were kept locked under penalty of death. Unlike the Sahara where the plants in the lobby were real geraniums rhododendrons and palm trees, everything at the Versailles was fake. The front desk was veneer and small, a drive-up entrance on the side of the building at one end of it and the door to the bar restaurant at the other end of it. There were two elevators facing the desk.

   The Sahara attracted weddings conventions and business meetings. Sometime TV crews filming episodes for “Route 66” stayed there. The Versailles attracted business like peddlers and door-to-door salesmen, families on a budget, African American ministers, short-term construction workers, sketchy characters who left big tips and said hold all their calls, and the John and Jane trade.

   I was glad to get the job since I could walk there from where I lived in Asia Town, it paid reasonably well, and I would have about half of my shift of 11 PM to 7 AM to do homework. My night clerk responsibilities were mainly checking in guests and taking reservations. I also reconciled the day’s receipts and processed invoices for payment between seeing to guests tramping in and out, getting paid a little extra for doing the night auditor work. I gave travel directions to late-night callers, answered inquiries about our hotel services, which was easy since there were hardly any, and made recommendations to guests about nighttime dining and entertainment options, which was also easy.

   “In the 1970s, downtown was dead. The Warehouse District and Playhouse Square weren’t happening yet. There was no reason to come,” said John Gorman, disc jockey and program director at radio station WMMS. 

   One sleepless night at the Versailles, while nothing was going down on my side of downtown, and I was boning up for an exam the next week, Shondor Birns, Public Enemy #1 in Cleveland for a long time, met his maker outside Christy’s Lounge, a strip club on Detroit Ave. across the street from St. Malachi Catholic Church. It was Holy Saturday, easing into Easter Sunday.

   During Prohibition the Birns family turned to bootlegging, working a still for Cleveland Mafia boss Joe Lonardo. His mother burned to death when the still exploded. After he dropped out of 10th grade, Shondor was arrested 18 times in 12 years. After his 6th arrest a Cleveland prosecutor said, “It is time the court put away this man whose reputation is one of rampant criminality.”

   He hooked up with the Maxie Diamond gang and got into the lucrative protection rackets. He muscled into numbers operations and policy games. He opened restaurants like the Ten-Eleven and Alhambra. His big mistake was hiring Danny Greene as an enforcer. The relationship soured and Birns put a contract out on Greene. When the Irishman found a bomb in his car, he took it apart himself and showed it to Cleveland Police Lieutenant Ed Kovacic, who offered him police protection.

   “No, for whatever it’s worth,” Danny Greene said, leaving and taking the bomb with him. “I’m going to send this back to the old bastard that sent it to me.”

   When Shondor Birns left the girlie show, got comfortable behind the wheel of his car, and the engine turned over purring, a hefty packet of C-4 exploded beneath him. He was blown through the roof of his Lincoln Mark IV. His torso landed near the passenger door. His legs landed fifty feet away. The cigarette he had meant to light was still between his lips.

   Mary Nags owned a print shop on Detroit Road that shared a common parking lot with the strip club. She got a call saying not to come to work on Monday. “They said a man had been blown up and parts of him were scattered around in our back lot.” The CPD spent another day finding all the parts of Shondor Birns.

   Police detectives focused on the lottery number big men in the ghetto with whom Birns had been feuding. That turned out to be a dead end. “It’s dumb to talk about blacks doing Shondor. Shon wasn’t no bad fella. He was white but it didn’t make no difference. Shon had a black soul. He was black through and through,” one of them said.

   After that everybody knew Danny Greene had done it, but charges were never brought when the hitman died. The Irish mobster had contracted Hells Angel Enis “Eagle” Crnic to do the job on Birns. The biker was then himself blown up bungling the sticking of explosives to the underside of a car belonging to “Johnny Del” Delzoppo. If the district attorney wanted to subpoena the Eagle, he would have to deliver the document to the bottomless pit, where he was living next door to Art Sneperger.

   The first time I was robbed at the Versailles Motor Inn I wasn’t robbed, because I was surprised and reacted without thinking. A young black man filled out a registration card, handed me a twenty, and when I turned around to get him his key, started rifling the cash drawer. “Hey!” I shouted, lunging forward and smashing the drawer shut on his hand. He ran out yelping and cursing.

   The second time I was robbed I was robbed. The next young black bandit didn’t bother registering. He was wearing a jacket and suggested he had a gun by patting his side near his armpit. “Know what I mean?” he said.

   “It’s not my money,” I said opening the drawer, stepping back, and raising my hands to the ceiling. He said I could put them down, but “don’t mess around.”

   He took all of the night’s take except the change. I called the police, a patrol car pulled up, I made out a report and they left. The men in blue seemed indifferent.

   “Don’t let it happen again,” my boss said in the morning.

   “What do you suggest?”

   “Do you want to keep your job?”

   “I guess so,” I said hedging my bets.

   “All right then,” he said, and that was the end of his word to the wise.

   My last night at the Versailles Motor Inn was the same as most nights, until it wasn’t. It was busy until 2:30, then it was slow as an orphanage’s graveyard. I sat in the back office reading until I got drowsy. I took a walk through the gloomy lobby and was standing behind the front desk doing nothing when the next split second there was an explosion. The doors of the bar restaurant flew off their hinges and every single glass window the length of the hallway was blown to smithereens.

   Other than the echo from the blast I couldn’t hear anything, slowly backing away from the desk and backing out the side door, sidling along the outside wall until I came to the front of the building.

   I stood outside until I was breathing again, and my hearing came back. I decided I wasn’t hurt since nothing hurt. Back inside the dust was settling and it didn’t look like anything was on fire. The phone was still working. I called the police and they arrived in the matter of a minute, the fire department hard on their heels.

  The firemen hauled hoses inside and sprayed water from one end of the bar restaurant to the other. The hardwood bar countertop was split in half. All the tables and chairs were helter-skelter. All of the bottles and glasses and mirrors were shattered. It was a mess.

   There were 50 or 60 guests tucked into their beds when the bomb went off. Some of them heard the ka-boom. A policeman stood by the elevator and whenever somebody came down asking what the noise had been told them to go back to bed.

   I went over what happened with a detective, twice. He asked me a hundred questions but finally told me to go home. It was five in the morning. I walked up East 30th St. to Payne Ave, past Dave’s Grocery and Stan’s Deli, to my rented rooms on East 34th St. I didn’t see another soul, although a couple of cars went by. My roommate was dead asleep. Mr. Moto my Siamese cat followed me into my bedroom and jumped on top of me when I fell into it. He fell asleep while I lay awake.

   I quit the next day. The only time I went back was to collect my paycheck. The boss looked at me sideways like I had something to do with the bombing. When I asked, he said the police had found a door forced at the back of the coffee shop, and believed that’s how the intruder got in, taping three sticks of dynamite to the underside of the bar counter. He said I was lucky the counter was oak.

   “One stick can blow a 12-inch-thick tree right out of the ground, do you know?” he said.

   I didn’t know and didn’t care. There were sheets of plywood hammered up everywhere. I asked for my paycheck again. 

   A month later I heard talk that the bar restaurant, which was leased like the coffee shop from the Versailles, had fallen behind paying the protection racket mobsters and the bombing was their way of settling accounts.

   The Mob was big in Cleveland in the 1970s. When John Scalish died after 30-odd years as the power broker in town, Jack “King of the Hill” Lucavoli took over. He lived in an unassuming house in Little Italy, up the hill towards Cleveland Heights.

   “Jack was the last of the old-school Cleveland mobsters,” said James Willis, a downtown lawyer. “Cleveland had the best burglars, thieves, and safe crackers in the country. I know, I represented a lot of them.”

   Jack White, another of his names, a play on his Sicilian complexion, got his start bootlegging in St. Louis. He came to Cleveland in 1938 and worked his way up. “A lot of the guys coming up were just out for themselves, not Jack. He looked out for the operation and he was so good at his job that I thought it would never end,” his downtown lawyer said.

   “No one thought it would be Licavoli taking over,” Rick Porello said. “He was an old miser. One time he was caught by store security for switching the price tag on a pair of trousers. When they found out who he was they dropped the charges.”

   “He was very secretive and not at all flamboyant,” James Willis said. “We would only ever talk in person.”

   I soon found work in the Communications department at CSU, on the 16th floor of Rhodes Tower, working for their new film studies professor. I was an English major, but it close enough. My job was picking up from the mail room whatever art house film he was showcasing, roll the 16 mm projector out of storage, screen the movie to his class, and send it on to the next place that wanted it. In return I got free tuition and a closet that passed for an office.

   I watched many French New Wave movies, Japanese samurai movies, and 1940s Warner Brothers crime movies during my work-study year, movies that the CSU library had tucked away. I projected them on my office wall at the end of the day. I didn’t have a TV at home, but they were better than anything on TV, anyway.

   Two years after I left the Versailles Motor Inn, John Nardi, who was secretary-treasurer of Vending Machine Service Employees Local 410 and high up in the mob’s chain gang of command, sauntered out of his office a couple of blocks away from where I had obsessed through countless film noirs, walked to his Oldsmobile 98, turned the key, and was blown to kingdom come. The bomb was packed with nuts and bolts, making sure it tore him apart. 

   Bomb City USA was alive and well.

Ed Staskus posts stories on 147 Stanley Street http://www.147stanleystreet.com and Cleveland Ohio Daybook http://www.clevelandohiodaybook.com. To get the site’s monthly feature in your in-box click on “Follow.”