By Nick Keppler
It's a Tuesday night, and I am sitting on a yoga mat in the back of a former grocery store in Pittsburgh, spreading my legs as far as they can go. I reflexively turn to see how the woman next to me is managing her dragonfly pose when I realize I can barely see her. The room is lit only by two lights that look like tin cans sitting in corners; they offer about as much illumination as a pair of Yankee jar candles. Kimee Massie, the heavily tattooed instructor (not to be confused with Kim Massie, the local singer), comes over to help me put a foam block under my ass. It gives me some leverage, and I feel a greater stretch in my inner thighs, but I still look over again to see how far the woman on the neighboring mat has gotten. I squint and make out the words on her T-shirt: "Fuck This. I'm Going Skateboarding."
Meanwhile, there is a dark, droning sound coming out of the stereo. Imagine the hiss that is omnipresent in David Lynch's Eraserhead overlapped by the slow diddling of an autistic noise-rock guitarist. It's oddly comforting in its noninvasive nature and consistency. I remember to inhale deeply.More »