January is a month for reflecting upon the things I am grateful for. Family and friends would normally lead this list, but If I relax my Superego a bit and give my Id more power, I would put pizza near the top.

Pizza and I have a terrific relationship.For starters, I was born in October, which since 1987 has been National Pizza month. I am ashamed to say that, though I was in Washington, DC when Congress passed the pizza bill, I lobbied neither for nor against it.

My parents encouraged my attachment to pizza from a young age. Growing up in Virginia and Ohio, we ate pizza most Saturday nights. My father made pizza from a box of Chef Boyardee mix, which contained everything from the dough to the cheese to the sauce. Sometimes I helped him, and I remember clearly how the dough never covered the cookie sheet. It would rip, and I had to start over. Once the pizza was ready, we ate square pieces in front of the TV, watching shows like Flipper, Mr Magoo, Get Smart and My Three Sons.

Some may scoff at eating pizza from a box, but I am proud of my family’s support of Chef Boyardee. His is a rags to riches story. Like a lot of Italians, he emigrated to the United States in the early 1900s, landing first in New York and then moving to Ohio and later Pennsylvania, where he built his highly successful company. During World War II, his factory ran around the clock to create food for the Allied troops. I suspect that our soldiers found the Chef Boyardee ravioli and spaghetti to be yummy, even straight from the can.

Nonetheless, once I graduated from Chef Boyardee pizza (CBP) to restaurant pizza, I realized that for me box pizza was a humble introduction—a gateway drug, if you will—to a world of infinite pizza possibility. Eating a pepperoni pizza from Shakey’s Pizza Parlor was my first clue that CBP had undersold me on pizza pie. While CPB was good, Shakey’s was mouthwatering. Along with Pizza Hut, Shakey’s was one of the first pizza chains in the country. The name “Shakey,” by the way, was taken from its founder, “Shakey” Johnson, a war veteran whose body shook because of nerve damage sustained during World War II. Besides the pizza, Shakey’s offered everything a kid could want: windows to watch the pizza makers, old Charlie Chaplain movies and a player piano. Sometimes, a dixieland jazz band even played. Though Shakey’s still exists, they are now concentrated in California and rank only 30th nationally in terms of sales.

Shakey’s grew less attractive to me as I entered high school. Pizza Hut, which had a cozier, more intimate atmosphere, became not only my favorite pizza restaurant but also the center of my social life. We lived in San Antonio at the time, and football was king. After games, hundreds of students would gather at Pizza Hut to hang out. When I took a girl out on a first date, we almost always ended up at Pizza Hut. The pizza was good, and, believe it or not, my bill would be less than 10 dollars. As a senior, I was allowed to leave campus for lunch, and a small group of us ate the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Hut most days. The pieces were small, enabling us each to eat a dozen or so pieces every day. We also wore out the Juke Box’s version of “Magic Carpet Ride,” and almost got kicked out one day when one of my more theatrical friends decided to dance to the song on top of a table.

To this day, my younger brother teases me about a pizza trick I used to play on him in San Antonio. We would occasionally go out for pizza together, and knowing me well, he insisted that we split the pizza in two parts, one on each side of the pan. Otherwise, I ate faster than he and would end up with more pizza. Not to be outdone by my little brother, I found ways to distract him, such as pointing out an attractive woman. When he looked away, I would spin the pan 180 degrees, so that his side of the pan, which always had more pieces than mine, was now in front of me. I could eat an extra couple of pieces using this technique.

My devotion to pizza continued past college, graduate school and beyond. In Washington, DC, I discovered Chicago deep dish pizza for the first time at a place called Armand’s, located near the National Cathedral. Its spinach pizza was superb. Houston has a terrific restaurant, Star Pizza, that features Chicago-style pizza. Again, the spinach pizza is terrific.

Because I was eating so much Chicago-style pizza, it was probably inevitable that I would end up living in Chicago and sampling its bounty of pizza parlors. I give thanks every day for Ike Sewell, who in 1943 opened Uno’s in Chicago and forever changed the world of pizza. My favorite Chicago pizzerias include Edwardo’s, Lou Malnati’s, Gepetto’s and Piece (which also brews some wonderful beer). Even Chicago’s frozen pizza is good. I adore Home Run Inn’s frozen pizza, especially the Classic Cheese. Its crispy, buttery crust is one of the very best I have sampled. In a sports-obsessed town like Chicago, one might think that Home Run Inn is named after the Cubs or White Sox. The truth is, prior to running a pizzeria, the owners ran a tavern that also served pizza, and one day an errant baseball broke their front window on Chicago’s south side.

I realize that I am not alone in my love of pizza. Statistics on pizza consumption in this country are astounding. Every second, Americans eat 350 slices of pizza; every day, 100 acres. And on Super Bowl Sunday, more pizza will be consumed than on any other day of the year.

Though none of my favorite teams will be playing this year, I will be watching the game, and with any luck, I will be eating some tasty pizza too.

Sources: Kraft Foods, armandspizza.com, chefboyardee.com, nytimes.com, library.thinkquest.org

I was not surprised to be the only male in my yoga class this morning. In fact, I am used to it. At my studio just a handful of men practice, and at the national level only 23 percent of yoga practitioners are male according to a 2005 Yoga Journal market study. On a personal level, I myself avoided yoga until just recently.

Curious about this yoga trend, I posted a question to both Twitter and Facebook: “77 percent of yoga practitioners in the USA are female. Why don’t more men do yoga? Any thoughts?”

I got a few responses, some funny and some serious, and interestingly, none of them from men. On Facebook, Amy Mall suggested that yoga “either feels too much like ‘dance’ or like ‘touchy feely’ spirituality.” Nicole Marroquin responded that if more guys knew about the high female-to-male ratio in yoga classes, more would practice yoga. On Twitter, @MarlowCanPrint speculated that men could not handle yoga because seeing women in flexible poses makes them think about sex.

Did any of these hypotheses apply to me during my non-yoga phase, i.e., most of my life? Amy’s thoughts on the spiritual dimension of yoga might apply. In my twenties in particular, I was less comfortable with practices that seemed “new age” or nontraditional. When I took my first yoga class in college, for example, I thought yoga was a little “out there,” and I did not return. By the time I was in my thirties, however, I had experimented with all kinds of things that might be called “new age,” including meditation, group therapy and even hypnosis. At that point, something other than spirituality was holding me back from practicing yoga.

Perhaps I was avoiding pain. When I took my next yoga class when I was close to 35, I found it to be extremely uncomfortable. When I did forward folds, I would experience knife-like sensations in my right ankle (I figured out later that this was probably scar tissue from a couple of ankle sprains). I completed the series of six classes that I had signed up for, but stopped after that. Who wants to be in pain?

Another reason was my commitment to running. Up until 2004, I ran almost every day, and on the days I did not run, I lifted weights. Doing yoga on top of running and lifting did not even cross my mind. In retrospect, I realize doing some supplemental yoga would have benefited my running.

The main reason my yoga mat was collecting dust, however, is that I thought yoga was boring, and I avoided boring situations with a passion. What was so boring? Not the repetitive nature of yoga, in which different postures or asanas are practiced over and over. As anyone can tell from looking at my drawings, I have a high tolerance for repetition. Rather, it was the slow pace of yoga that I found dull. I preferred the faster movement of running.

My attitude towards yoga changed almost three years ago. It was a stressful time, and I was motivated to find new ways to manage my heightened anxiety. I started meditating regularly, which helped, and decided to give yoga another try. When I returned to the yoga studio, I saw the classes in an entirely new light: no longer just a way to exercise, but a method of practicing mindfulness, or moment-to-moment awareness. In his book Full Catastrophe Living, Jon Kabat-Zinn refers to yoga as “moving meditation,” and that perfectly describes what yoga is for me now. The “moving” part of yoga keeps me strong and flexible, and the “meditation” part of it helps calm my mind. Yoga is exactly what I need in my life right now, and I predict for a long time to come.

I am convinced that many others, men included, could benefit the way I have. Yoga is especially well suited for the uncertain times in which we live. In a yoga class, we practice staying calm while moving the body in ways that can throw us off balance or challenge our flexibility. Yoga also trains us to breathe. And breathe. And breathe. It sounds simple, but it is a good strategy for facing many of life’s obstacles.

I would encourage any male readers to give yoga a try and let me know how you like it. If you are like me, it may take years before you commit to a regular practice. On the other hand, you might fall in love with it right away. Either way, you will be taking a step towards better health. And maybe we can raise our numbers from 23 percent to 30 or 40 percent the next time Yoga Journal does a survey.

Loud noises have always scared me. Thunder, firecrackers, sirens and popped balloons make me jump. Knowing this about myself, I could have predicted that sharing a room with crashing gongs would challenge me both physically and mentally. Instead of worrying about my jumpiness, however, I focused on the anticipated benefits of gong immersion, including increased energy, a clearer mind and expanded consciousness. Who wouldn’t like greater clarity and energy for the price of a gong serenade?

When I entered the studio, laying my yoga mat on the floor along with the 40 other immersion participants, my noise issues had yet to cross my mind. Until, that is, someone tipped me off. She confessed that that the gongs are “really loud” and made her “feel anxious.” Immediately, I knew I was in trouble. And to the credit of the kind, talented gong player, he warned us that the volume would be high at the beginning, and that some of us might want to cover our ears. His recommendation, though, was that we try to relax and surrender to the sound.

“I can do this,” I thought. “It’s unexpected noises that give me a problem, right?” Well, not exactly, because when I see lightning, I know that thunder will follow, but I still jump. Without that hypothesis to comfort me, I nonetheless pledged to myself that I would not cover my ears.

As the gong immersion began, I rested on my mat and started watching my breathing as a way to stay present. The first few minutes were fine, even enjoyable. But then volume spiked, and I felt myself start to tense up. The clashing rose, and I felt overwhelmed, but rather than covering my ears, I dramatically deepened and lengthened the inhale I was in the process of taking. This worked pretty well. I still felt anxious, but I was able to expand my inhales or exhales through each successive wave of loud clashing. After about 10 minutes of this practice, the volume of the music subsided, and my breathing returned to normal.

The rest of the immersion was less about fear and more about wonder. Now more relaxed, I was able to envision a range of wild images, including a series of black and white three-dimensional abstractions that were a cross between sci-fi space ships and Kurt Schwitters’ Merzbau. One gong reverberated in a way that sent waves of sound through my head. That, along with a high-pitched, rain-like sound, were the most calming, healing sounds of the evening. As the program came to a close, we slowly emerged from our meditative states, held a brief discussion and adjourned.

In spite of—or perhaps because of—the anxiety I experienced during the gong immersion, I am grateful that I participated. I confronted a long-held irrational fear and discovered a strategy for managing it: deep breathing, which in retrospect seems so obvious. I also imagined new abstract forms to incorporate into my art practice.

Would I participate in another gong immersion? Definitely. And, since practice makes perfect, perhaps I should also incorporate firecrackers and thunder into my daily meditation practice.

It wasn’t love at first listen. I liked R.E.M.’s “Radio Free Europe” well enough in 1983, but I didn’t buy it.

That changed a year later. I shared a little house in San Antonio with my friend Robbie Botto and his substantial record collection. He played terrific stuff: Style Council, The English Beat, The The, The Pretenders, and, of course, R.E.M. Reckoning (1984) was the album and “Pretty Persuasion” the song that hooked me. It had everything I love: unforgettable melodies, gorgeous harmonies, peppy tempos, and passion. I could sing along with them too, much to my friend’s and family’s annoyance, because you didn’t have to know the lyrics. They were indecipherable anyway.

Robbie also had a copy of Murmur, the R.E.M. album that would end up being my favorite. The cover was ghostly: a black and white photo (taken with infrared film?) of mysterious objects shrouded with kudzu. The music was equally mysterious, recorded, it seemed, in a small church or a haunted house. Though every song is fantastic, the standout track is “Pilgrimage,” which is gorgeous from beginning to end: echoey, unpredictable, psychedelic. Michael Stipe and Mike Mills sing with a sense of longing and near desperation in their voices. It’s the kind of song that gives me chills 27 years later.

That fall, I got to see R.E.M. in the gymnasium of George Washington University (GWU). The band played their hearts out. Stipe—his long, curly hair hiding his face—even sang an acapella, and hauntingly beautiful, version of “Moon River.” I saw them again at GWU on the Life’s Rich Pageant tour. Playing almost the entirety of Life’s Rich Pageant, including my favorites “Flowers of Guatemala,” “Fall On Me,” and “I Believe,” R.E.M. was on fire, and so was the crowd. We danced, sang along, and were sad when it ended. To this day, this is perhaps the best concert I’ve ever attended.

Though R.E.M.’s next albums—Document, Green, and Out of Time—were all solid, I only saw them once more: in 1989 on the Green tour at Merriweather Post Pavilion. I enjoyed myself—the music was fantastic and the atmosphere politically charged, with booths representing many of the band’s leading causes—but the concert lacked the intimacy of the GWU shows.

Many critics consider R.E.M.’s next album, Automatic For The People, to be the band’s masterpiece. I love it too. “Man On The Moon,” “Find The River,” and “The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight” are some of the band’s very best songs. Some of the same critics, however, believe Automatic For The People was the last good album that R.E.M. recorded. I disagree. I think their next two records, Monster and New Adventures in Hi-Fi, are both terrific. New Adventures in Hi-Fi, the last album with Bill Berry as the band’s drummer, is perhaps the most experimental of the group’s catalogue. “Leave” and “So Fast, So Numb” are especially worth a listen.

The band’s last albums Up, Reveal, Around the Sun, Accelerate, and Collapse into Now are less consistent than their earlier work, but some of the songs are gems. “At My Most Beautiful,” “Walk Unafraid,” “Beat A Drum,” “Living Well Is The Best Revenge,” and “Supernatural Superserious” deserve a place in upcoming “best of” collections.

In the 1990s R.E.M. was called “the band you grew up with.” This rings as true now as it did then. R.E.M. album’s are like calendars of my personal history. Document is my year in Duke’s political science department. Monster is my second year of art school at the University of Texas. Out Of Time is the year I met my girlfriend Cynthia. I am sad the band has broken up, but as someone whose longest tenure at a job was five years (and that was with a five-month break), I can hardly fault them.

I wish the lads well.

Sometimes I feel a little out of synch with the art world. Take the highly influential “social practice” model, for example. This is a strategy in which artists work hand-in hand with specific communities or intervene in public spaces or designated social systems. The appeal of this approach is clear: it is culturally engaged, democratic, and sensitive to undervalued groups.

At last week’s terrific Hand-in-Glove conference in Chicago, keynote speaker and social practitioner Nato Thompson, clearly excited about the Occupy Wall Street events, urged us to channel our cultural influence towards changing society. I was energized by Thompson’s speech, which had a familiar ring to it. I am old enough to remember the protest movements of the late 60s and early 70s. Before I went to art school, I got degrees in political science and international relations, and worked in Washington, DC because I wanted to have a positive impact on our country.

After leaving DC, however, I never managed to blend together my political and artistic interests. My art practice is more private than social, more meditative than activist. I enjoy reading critical theory (perhaps “enjoy” is overstating it) and learning how other artists are influenced by it, but it does not, at least at a conscious level, have an impact on my practice.

As a result, I feel a bit disjointed, and definitely not au courant.

Yesterday, the pain in my back was so bad I doubted my ability to walk the one-block distance from the Farmer’s Market to my sister Laura’s house. I ventured out nonetheless, and as I walked, my lower back did battle with my leg. It was spasm versus stride for five long minutes. Fortunately, my legs prevailed, and I arrived at her house unnerved, but in one piece. Immediately, I put my legs up the wall and rested on my back. Sweet relief.
Later that afternoon, my back felt well enough to walk the half mile to my apartment. I made the journey, and once settled in, spent a solid 24 hours icing my back and resting. I also worked on some small drawings, pictured here (still in progress).

My friend Sarah, who has had a history of back problems, called to check on me. She urged me to rest and not to risk further injury. Part of me knows she is right, but another part is ready to get back to my normal routine. I’ve been on the mend for five days now. I especially miss my yoga classes, which not only challenge me physically, but also supplement my daily meditation practice.

With my birthday approaching—a reminder that I am settling into middle age—I cannot help but equate this back injury with the aging process itself. Though I have been blessed with excellent health overall, physical challenges like these are still humbling. They make me aware of the body’s limits. At the same time, they make me feel grateful for simple things such as being able to walk, see, listen, and draw.

I have a tender back right now. For the past three days, I have been digging a sixty-foot long, two-foot deep trench in my sister’s backyard to control water drainage, and I got a little careless, I suppose, with my shoveling technique. The mantra “lift with your legs, not with your back” is easier said than done, especially when having to reach a spot 24 inches below your feet with the shovel.

My wonderful yoga instructor, Kelly, advised me to ice my back and take a “gentle” yoga class today. The ice helped (but the ice bag leaked, and I’m still drying out my couch cushion), and the gentle yoga class was sufficiently gentle—with the exception of the seated forward folds, which I found to be painful and avoided thereafter.

I finished the trench project, so my sore back is not preventing me from drawing, writing, practicing yoga, and engaging in my other daily activities. If, however, I had to earn a living with my back, as so many do, I would be royally screwed. It makes me appreciate the options I have, even in this challenging economy.

A couple of nights ago, I got into a conversation about Steve Jobs’ passing with several artist friends. A few of us, including myself, were deeply saddened by his death, while others thought that all the hoopla about Jobs, most notably (and locally) the spontaneous shrine to him at the Apple Store on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, was overblown.

My feelings about are Jobs are overwhelmingly positive. He was inventive and visionary, bringing to the public products that made us excited about technology and its creative potential. On the other hand, the Jobs’ naysayers point at Apple’s use of offshore manufacturing facilities that paid low wages. They also argue that deifying Jobs perpetuates the myth of the lone, artistic genius, when in reality Jobs needed teams of people, most notably product designers and engineers, to bring his ideas to fruition.

Wherever you find yourself in this debate, I think we can all agree that we are hungry for something and someone to celebrate. After more than three years of economic turmoil, most of us have a severe case of recession fatigue. We want to believe again in our collective potential for greatness, and Steve Jobs represents this aspiration.