Raw, adjective: 11. unprocessed or unevaluated

So Ricky Williams is apparently doing yoga now to get over his little, uh, pot problem.

The Chron had an article yesterday (good pics - check 'em out) about how Mr. Ricky is spending his off-season time in Grass Valley (heh heh, get it, "Grass Valley") living in a simple wooden house with his fam and studying yoga and yogic theory. I can't tell if he's really completely genuine about all this or if he's just drinking the water, but either way, I love these articles that come out now and then completely astonished that a) you can reconcile a training regimen of yoga and weight-lifting, and b) that - goshdarnit! - yoga is HARD! Whaddya know?! Somehow the media never tires of contrasting these big hulking guys with the stereotypical willowy yogini you'd expect.

The article's here if you wanna see Ricky doing a little Plough by a lake.

Also, March 2nd. How'd that happen? I feel like the last two weeks disappeared in some Bermuda Triangle of couch-sitting and clock-watching and waiting for the foot to heal. The walking boot is still rocking my world, and as much as I'm still impatient at not being full speed yet, it's great to be able to amble around again. In search of martinis.

There's been a man outside a block or so down wailing some loud sad song for the better part of an hour. In spite of the fact that he's probably insane (the sun's not even up, man!), he has a remarkably good voice, kind of like the husky textured sound you'd picture wailing at an Irish wake or something. It's really bizarre, and kind of wonderful.

San Francisco for you. Instead of roosters at dawn, we've got Crazy Dudes serenading the streets. I'm in love.


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