The pandemic hit everyone differently. This we know. Some fell victim to the virus and suffered no consequences, no symptoms. Others painfully choked to death in hours. Some developed longstanding aftereffects. Brain fog. Headaches. Difficulty breathing. Loss of taste or smell. Hairy tongue. Covid toes.
(Hits pause.) What, and I ask this in all sincerity, what the fuck are Covid toes? And seriously: hairy tongue?
(Hits record again.) Then there’s the mental and emotional fallout. Many of us have lost people to this plague. Friends, relatives, loved ones. There are no words to describe the sudden, ruthless trauma as a piece of our lives is ripped away and swallowed by the void.
Covid hit Thee Tourettes in waves. First one or two of us succumbed and were dungeoned in quarantine, then weeks or months later another few would tumble into the clutches of the beast. Eventually it cycled through all of us, in some cases multiple times. Myself included, pincushion Pinky Tourette, recipient of every vaccine, booster, antigen, serum, antitoxin, and tincture known to man. Thankfully the vax worked its magic and I can report no significant ill effects. No errant toes. No hirsute tongue.
Instead I watched the virus change us psychically and psychologically as we remained holed up in our castle keep for nigh on two years. This being the longest the band ever stayed in one place. In fact, prior to the pandemic the longest period between gigs for the girls was six days, and that was due to the unfortunate incident with the amnesiac Nazi scientist and the cloned pterodactyl (a tale for another day).
The whole experience hit Sleepy the worst. When she tested positive we padlocked her in the basement and left her food on a tray outside the door. Lockdown didn’t suit her and she swiftly went stir-crazy, craving excitement, live shows, touring, basic human interaction. At one point I thought we’d need an elephant gun to sedate her. Instead her therapist kept telling Sleepy to breathe. Not sure why you need a therapist for that; I can attest she’s had a lot of experience breathing.
The therapist also strongly pushed meditation, not just for Sleepy but for all of us. Some found it easier than others. Me, I couldn’t keep my mind from charging down neon alleys whenever I tried to empty it. Felt like digging a hole in the ocean. I tried chakra meditation, yoga meditation, transcendental, mantra, tai chi. No dice.
Likewise the lotus pose wasn’t designed for a body like mine, nor the sukhasana or vajrasana. I am not a damn pretzel.
So I decided to give meditation aids a shot. First music. And I can tell you this unequivocally: new age sucks turds. Big, smelly, tyrannosaurus turds.
Next I bought special meditation clothing: a hooded Buddhist cloak and harem pants. Silk pajamas. Nepali palazzo pants, a Turkish kaftan, a Japanese kimono, an Indian Patiala salwar.
Nothing.
By now it was now a challenge. I wasn’t gonna let meditation beat my capitalist ass. Making generous use of my Amazon Prime Visa I decked out my space with a Buddha statue, Tibetan incense, Nepali cushions, a singing bowl and tingsha. Bought an altar cloth, prayer shawl, yoga mat, mala with yellow tiger eye and carnelian beads, a prayer wheel and zen gong.
I gobbled down nootropic supplements: magnolia bark extract, valerian root, ashwagandha, phosphatidylserine, citicoline, L-theonine, N acetyl L-tyrosine.
And at the end I was not one millimeter closer to nirvana. I’d sit down to meditate and my mind would zing straight to my Netflix queue or dinner plans or a pending business issue that needed addressing. Quiet, calm, serenity, equanimity – these are simply alien states to me, not something my cerebellum is willing to accept without a fight.
Which led to my breakthrough idea. Inspired by Peloton and comparable programs for folks who cannot motivate themselves without someone either berating or coddling them, I had a stroke of (modesty be damned) genius.
Competitive meditation.
Think about it. No more struggling to ease gently into a state of inner peace and tranquility, softly sinking into the present moment, cushioning yourself in wellbeing and fulfillment and good will. Fuck that noise.
Consider it instead a contest, a struggle, a battle. “I can meditate better than you can.” Win prizes for best pose, outstanding mindfulness, most yin-yangy. Bootcamp coaches loudly barking a mantra at your lazy ass and bullying you into a higher state of consciousness, or else you’re a stinkin’ loser.
It’s a can’t-miss proposition. I envision Tourettes-branded meditation gulags springing up across the U.S. and eventually the globe. Monasteries and lamaseries falling into disuse as students and disciples scramble to subscribe instead to our Competitation program. Reality shows pitting contestants against one another to determine the most transcendental. Meditation throwdowns in Madison Square Garden.
Sometimes, it must be said, I outdo myself. This is one of those moment. I’d pat myself on the back… except I’m not a damn pretzel.
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