It was my second Food Fest Extravaganza with Peter and I had been preparing for it all week by drinking nothing but my own urine. Peter creates some of the best vegan and raw food meals I have ever tasted, from appetizers of dehydrated crackers with caraway seeds and cheesy guacamole dip, to quinoa and mixed vegetables with a special sauce (whose recipe I discovered by accident when I walked in on Peter spanking it over this ancient grain dish and have since added my own spunk to everything I serve others) to desserts that have made me have to throw three pairs of semen-soaked underwear in the hamper from just thinking about—CHA-CHA-CHA, uh, make that four—from a raw German chocolate cake with a frosting of dates, cashews and maple syrup, to both coconut and macadamia nut ice-cream.
Last year, I went to a meet-up on Long Island that consisted of a day of raw food demos and eating, as well as yoga and holistic modalities, where I taught a yoga class with my usual rebel flair—meaning a poorly sequenced class where my “adjustments” consist of rubbing my nutsack against the students while they’re in downward dog. At this event I met Kardamom, who is a strong woman who knows what she likes and likes what she knows (I’m not sure what that means but it sounds kind of fierce, no?) Peter was also at the event and at a later date Kardamom told me about his Food Fests and through the connection of yoga and raw foods—Kevin Bacon!
The first Food Fest Extravaganza I went to at Peter’s left me in some serious distress. I ate so much that after dozing out in an insulin coma on his couch, I found my stomach in serious pain and in need of pumping, similar to the last time I went backstage at a Rod Stewart concert and found myself in the hospital having two gallons of sperm pumped from my stomach—which was a lot harder to explain than the Fusilli Jerry in my ass! I literally had two bites of dessert left on my plate and couldn’t even stuff them down—this coming from a guy who was raised in a Jew house where eating was considered not only a sign of sharing love but also a way to swallow the blood of Christian children that we cooked into our matzah. For the record, Christian altar boys who haven’t been fucked by a priest usually have the sweetest tasting blood. MM-MMM!
At the end of the first Fest, Peter asked if I wanted to take any food home. I was so distraught that I couldn’t even fathom it, let alone think about eating ever again. It wasn’t until the next day that I was like, “Shoot! I wish I had taken some food home!” Well this time I did, from his cheesy guacamole to his blueberry and chewy granola-y dessert. Yum! CHA-CHA-CHA. Oh no—5th pair of underwear! This time I decided to pace myself a little better and while I still ate more than the entire population of Ethiopia does in a year, but I wasn’t in as much agony as the last time.
It was at this Food Fest that I met Lina, an opinionated Russian yoga teacher. The hairs in the crack of my ass were on edge because my false soulmate, the Red-Haired Devil, was also a Russian yoga teacher and I thought God might have been messing with me by reincarnating her after I had thrown her into a tar pit in Jersey. Because I agreed with a lot of her opinions, such as that most yoga being commercially taught is not much more than calisthenics, I found her quite amusing.
But then she had to go on about her trip to India and the poison of fake spirituality didn’t mix well with the careful food combining of fruits and vegetables and nuts and seeds and beans and water shaken not stirred in my stomach. I was kind of psyched about the possibility of puking, as this would give me more room to eat! Oh, if I only had a young boy to blow me I’d either be Roman, or a Catholic priest, or maybe even a Roman Catholic priest! I don’t know which would be better: if I were a Roman, I would have Caesar defending me from prosecution and no one questions Caesar—except for maybe Domino when it comes to making pizza; if I were a Catholic priest I would have the phony, cross-dressing, “messenger of God,” the Pope, hiding my sodomy. Oh, decisions, decisions…
Lina said how when she was in India, she was at some resort and this “stupid American” kept trying to force a tip of 500 rupees on some worker who kept politely refusing. First of all, even with our dollar not being worth the paper that Bernake keeps printing it on and dumping it out of helicopters, 500 rupees is like 12 cents. Uh, no second of all. But Lina kept saying how, “He just didn’t get it, that this was actually insulting to the Indian man.” Just what I needed, an insulting lecture about how stupid us Americans are from a white Commie import who paints her face a curry yellow.
Peter easily spends over $100, probably closer to $200, not to mention countless hours in food preparation for each of the Food Fests he hosts. In the two I’ve attended, there were up to 12 people in attendance, which is the equivalent of preparing food for 30 with these fatties. Kardamom and I had talked about how while it would be nice to throw Peter a donation for all he puts into his events, Peter himself had insisted that he doesn’t want anything. I had suggested we could gift him with supplies he may use in his creations, like the big bag of raw cacao powder I gave him at this last event.
When I was at the kriya yoga ashram in India, with which I have an affiliation from taking three initiations in the States(don’t worry, no “The poor brownies are much more spiritual than us whiteys” speeches), there was a young Indian man who would always ask if we wanted any more food and was always quick to bring us food or tea or give us a happy ending. I remember saying a simple, “Thank you,” to him and on seeing his face, I realized for the first time what a true karma yogi was, one whose service to God is in serving others without thinking about the rewards of their actions. In the American yoga scene, “karma yoga” means “doing slave labor for a yoga studio by teaching without pay so that the studio can save money by not paying their teachers.”
The young Indian man looked at me almost confused, as if I had ordered a Double Big Mac at a Burger King, and if he were as loquacious a mystic as me he might have said, “Do you thank the birds for singing, or the trees for blowing in the wind, or the cow for mooing? This is their joy. This is their service to the God within their hearts. It would be ridiculous to thank them for being a willing tool of God. So shut the fuck up with the ‘thank you,’ okay white boy?” And then he gave me a handjob.
Peter, too, is a karma yogi. He not only enjoys the creative energy of putting God into the form of food using the mold of his love, but he beams when he sees how much others enjoy his creations. To give him money for this would actually diminish his joy in giving—and be an insult.
We are all human, except for the aliens living among us, both Mexican and extraterrestrial, and if you start receiving money for any action, after awhile it becomes known as a job. “I give to them. They pay me because I give to them. They are paying for my giving. Therefore, my giving is a job and it is hard to hold love in the dark and dank container of a business.” Then one day someone doesn’t bring a “donation” and you inevitably feel a little ripped off. “What a cheap bastard!”
I had to be careful regarding this when teaching yoga by donation. There was one time when there was about six or seven students in class and they didn’t even donate enough to cover the $25 room rental fee. I was pissed…until I did some self-reflection and realized that I had been a douche and that donation means “whatever you give” and not “what I want you to give.” [See “The Empty Envelope” http://rebelyogi.com/the-empty-envelope.html and “A Rose By Any Other Name—Would Be A Pretty Stupid Name” http://rebelyogi.com/a-rose-by-any-other-name-would-be-a-pretty-stupid-name]
The next day I was walking with Ninja, who I had taken to the Food Fest largely because her freeloading ass has been eating me out of house and home. She told me that she walked in on a conversation between Lina and Peter where Lina was insisting that Peter should be compensated for all he puts into his Fests and that she was very pushy. Peter said, “I hear what you are saying. But I can’t do it,” and his “can’t” wasn’t because he was too much of a pussy to ask but because it felt innately wrong for him to charge for sharing his joy.
When the Ninja told me this, like an idiot savant reciting the answers to the 1953 game show, What Animal’s Schlong Is This? I connected some pieces and realized the whole puzzle was that of a hypocritical yoga poser. We all had to listen to Lina’s lecture on how ignorant Americans are, a topic that is already hard to swallow coming from a Russian Commie. And yet wasn’t she being just as insensitive to her “server” when she kept insisting that Peter charge for his Fests? While I may agree that on the whole Americans are stupid, insensitive, arrogant idiots, I think the Americans who cover their skin with the make-up of the East are all that and hypocrites to boot.
I am the first one to tell you to burn your books and live, to stop READ-ing and start BE-ing. I also quote Jesus when he said, “Let the dead bury the dead” and apply this to Jesus’ words themselves, which is so paradoxical as to be beautiful, and say we should burn all of our Bibles and New Testaments and, dare I say it, Korans. We could burn Book of Mormons but I don’t think anyone would really give a shit, except for a few polygamists who are too busy banging their seven wives in between churning butter to make much of a stink.
But it is amazing to me that Jesus’ Parable of the Vineyard applies today as much, if not more, than it did 2000 years ago. If you don’t know the parable, read it. I will just give you the punch line: “I gave you what I promised you. What the hell do you care what I do with the rest of my money? Why are you involving yourself in matters that don’t concern you? What are you, Muslim?” Perhaps Lina should get off her curry-colored high horse and “Baaa” with the flock of the Jesus shepherd for awhile.
Even if you took out the “joyful love” element for Peter, we could still look at his sharing as his personal “donation.” Who is Lina or anyone to tell another person how he should donate his money? No one has the right to do this—except apparently the government as it donates taxpayer money towards Haiti and Israel and 9/11 victims families whose spouses didn’t take out a life insurance policy and so the Federal Government made them millionaires via taxpayer money.
But apparently the white bread Westerners who walk around with a curry I.V. drip making them stink like an dot-headed Indian, will tell you where you should give your money. Key word is “your” money—and not hers. They’ll tell you that feeding the hungry or giving to the poor is the work of God but that giving to your friends and family is just selfish. Who died and made them the Director of other people’s charitable donations?
I can see what will probably happen. Soon there will be a whispered understanding that everyone “should” bring a donation of some food ingredient that Peter can use. The food donation is not the problem, it is the “should” that is, because it will almost immediately take it from an action of the loving heart and move it to an action of the guilt-ridden mind. And then we’re back into the “Who’s on first. What’s on second. I don’t know—Catholic church” comedy routine.
We’re always taught to “give” but does anyone teach us how to receive? If you received fully, without the need for a tit-for-tat or putting a marking on your invisible tally, can you imagine how filled the giver would feel? We can’t because we have been taught what we “should” do, and what is “expected,” and what is “proper” and not to let the voices of our parents, priests and politicians in our heads decide what is “right” and “wrong”…and not our hearts. Talk to anyone going to a Bar Mitzvah or wedding and you will hear him or her say, “Well, it is going to be about $75 a plate and since I am bringing my spouse, I should give at least $100 present.” I go to weddings and great the host with, “Here’s my present” and give them a hug. If those bitches don’t appreciate my present—which is my presence—there are no returns and either way I’ll be eating big that night.
It would take something away from Peter for him to accept donations, something that no one has the right to take away from him—not me, not the church, not the “should” police and especially not some makeshift Commie yoga poser.
Yogis talk about karma yoga as if it is anything other than guilty-induced giving or business dealings to get your Heaven’s Gate pass or your Enlightenment halo. How about amrak yoga, which is about receiving so fully that the giver feels so completely blessed that no thought of, “Well, that’s nice and all, but how about throwing a few bucks into the pot!” comes to mind?
It is our inability to receive that has destroyed the beauty of giving. Get off your curry-colored high horse and open your arms to receive. And when you are truly open to receive, the hugs you receive will be felt just as joyously around your torso as it is felt on the giver’s arms.
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REFLECTION:
Do you prefer giving or receiving? How are you at receiving? When someone gives you a gift do you say, “You shouldn’t have,” or “I don’t deserve this”? If someone gives you a compliment, can you grin largely and say, “Thanks” or do you dismiss their gift of gratitude for you by saying, “You don’t have to thank me,” or “It’s nothing”? If someone compliments me, I say, “Damn straight!” 
MEDITATION:
Imagine yourself giving a gift to another person. It could be a gift of flowers or food or your time or energy or maybe “just” your love. Imagine the receiver saying, “You didn’t have to get me this.” How do you feel? Now imagine the receiver saying, “I feel so blessed to have someone who thinks about me like you do.” How do you feel when he or she says this?
Imagine someone giving you a gift of flowers or food or their time or energy or their love. As the receiver, how do you feel if you say, “You didn’t have to get me this”? Probably like the receiving valve is a little closed, no? Now try: “I feel so blessed to have you in my life.” Any difference? You bet your ass there is! (But be careful about betting your ass; I lost my ass in a poker game and ever since then, sitting has been a real pain in the, uh, high hind quarters!
