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Urban legend has it that in a certain city a certain yoga teacher would adjust people in the pyramid pose, hover over their back as if to push down and lengthen their spine, and his “Man Berries” (aka Mountain Oysters) could be faintly felt on the back of their head.

Upon surveying those who have taken this teacher’s class, these are the responses I heard:

“Wait is he in town?!”

“Oh my God, I loooooooved his class.”

“Oy.”

“MC TeaBag? Love that guy!”

I know what you must be thinking and I agree. Aren’t there better things to write about? But sometimes things happen in yoga and I feel a certain responsibility to share them so we can start a dialogue. It’s when we shove these little goings-on to the depths that we become naïve as to what people outside Yoga Nation are saying. And that is a big problem. I believe yoga is not growing as fast it could, if it’s even growing at all anymore. I believe yoga is not branching out in a way that would serve all those whose paycheck is dependent on the prosperity of our industry.

So I propose a national yoga conference less for teaching and more for dialogue. Like a TED or World Economic Forum for the fans, teachers, gurus, and marketers of the yoga industry.

Some things that need discussing:

–how to further the careers of young, talented yoga teachers across the nation who otherwise have little chance of being recognized. A talent scouting system of sorts.

–how to build better community amongst studios. So often studios will only promote their own workshops rather than joining forces and helping one another on a citywide basis.

–how to create a rating system for yoga classes based on the style of physical adjustments. G being for the teacher who will give a tap or two in down dog and nothing more. And R for the teacher who will plop down on top of you in Happy Baby and whisper sweet nothings in your ear/s. Those ratings will be applied by a rating certification business (like the Yoga Alliance but more corrupt) similar to how the movie business has the MPAA to rate films. Let’s be honest people. Some of us love to be touched, massaged, and rubbed and would opt for the R rated class anyday of the week. And some of us consider our inner thighs sacred territory and would stick with G and occasionally opt for PG on Friday nights.

Either way, we all love yoga whether it be the G, R, or dare I say X variety. So let’s join forces, stop the in-fighting, trash talking, and snobbery, and build bridges to the uninitiated thirsting for the peace and sanctity only a great savasana can provide.

In my 36 years, I’ve seen some great live shows ranging from Axl Rose performing an acoustic version of Freefallin with Tom Petty to the Grateful Dead’s first time playing Baba O’Reilly (Teenage Wasteland) to Prince’s Purple Rain tour with my parents (embarrassing). Nothing and I mean nothing compared to seeing the “D” “O” “Double G” otherwise known as Snoop Dogg on Thursday night in Cleveland. Sitting in pole position front row on the loge overhanging the raucous House of Blues crowd, I thought about standing up to dance and decided my spineless hippie swivel fist pump moves wouldn’t fly with the drunk n’ stoned gangsta crowd behind me. (visit here to view a clip)

Snoop stepped on stage over 60 minutes late after already delaying the start time 2 hours so he could attend the Lebron James-Cavs’ game across the street at the Quicken Loans Arena. Snoop finally began at midnight, didn’t smell enough weed in the air, and promptly reprimanded the crowd to light up. Then several full bodied women dancers came on the stage in string bikinis and flashed their woohoonies and veejerinas at the crowd while shaking their bodunkadunks to Snoop’s classics like “Gin and Juice” and “Sexual Eruption”.  “How polarizing!” I thought. “This could be something fun and different to try at the Midwest Yoga Conference in June.”

*****

A recent NY Times article entitled “The Fat Lady Has Sung” broke down our current state of affairs. As the article stated, “We just had our 70 fat years in America, thanks to the Greatest Generation and the bounty of freedom and prosperity they built for us.” Then there was the Grasshopper Generation which indulged and ate through our prosperity like “hungry locusts.”  And now, the question is, will we become the “Regeneration?” Will we step up the plate, and accept that we are a generation in which “the great task of government will be about taking things away from people?” Will we be able to handle the challenges, expenses, and endurance necessary to rebuild?

At the Snoop Dogg concert, there was no thought of Regeneration. I had a great, albeit kneebuckling time. One of America’s legendary rap/hip-hop artists made me dance, laugh, and sing out loud about things like drinking, smoking, and for lack of a cleaner word, fornicating. As I left the warmth of the House of Blues and stepped into the harsh reality of the freezing Ohio winter, nobody was high-fiving or ranting Snoop’s rallying cry “Get high and f—k!” There were far fewer baggy jeans sagging at the ankles than there were pants tightened up a notch or two around the waist.  And the bling just seemed a little out of place reflecting against the tin can of a street beggar hurting for work, food, and hope.

So where does this go now? I can tell you this. I love to party. I love Snoop Dawg. I am part of the Grasshopper Generation, a “locust” looking to consume, enjoy, and indulge. What am I doing to rebuild, repair, and Regenerate? Sad to say, so far, not a single thing. You?

A beautiful guest blog by Angela Gargano, co-founder of the Yoga + Wine experience and creator of Bliss Flow Yoga.  Visit here for more

Life has never been better because for the first time in a long time, I have a puppy. He’s a 9 week old lab pup named Gibson (see pic during his first haircut which he needed b/c he got peed on by his 2 year old lab cousin Cooper).

Formerly a germ freak, I don’t care that Gibson was tongue-shining his cousin Cooper’s ballsack before jumping into my lap and licking me on the lips.  Always concerned with cleanliness, I’m the first to admit Gibson has left my condo looking (and sometimes smelling) like the upper deck men’s bathroom at an Oakland Raider game. Never would I have thought that watching in real-time a living being drop a deuce on my kitchen floor would actually provoke laughter if not the laughter of a desperate dog dad with limited knowledge on training a puppy.

My formula for happiness has been reduced to lying on the floor, getting licked and nibbled, and staring into the eyes of another being whose only worry in the world is to eat, play, and sleep.

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Govan Brown* was a local legend in New York City. A city bus driver for more than 20 years who retired in 1988, Govan drove over 220,000 miles and was almost always pleasant, cheerful, and personable. It might be hard to understand how Govan found all of the above in driving a bus through the worst possible traffic, but one man’s grid is another man’s labyrinth. Said his boss, “Govan so mastered being happy with himself, happy with life, and happy with people that nobody can touch him.”

Maybe you know someone (or maybe you are) like Govan Brown…lucky enough to have found their unique place in the world. A Harvard psychologist, Howard Gardner, researched those rare people who, like Govan Brown, have found overwhelming joy in seemingly underwhelming careers. There are 3 factors that go into finding such joy: Engagement, excellence, ethics.  Govan strived for excellence by entertaining his passengers with a lively monologue on the places they were passing and their history, alerts of great sales, his reviews of movies at theaters they passed and highlights of museum exhibits. Ever so engaged in his daily encounters, Govan was known to greet a toddler with a handshake, spend at least two minutes giving directions to a teenager, and wish just about everyone a nice day as they disembarked. His ethics and morals were without question. As deacon of a Baptist church, Govan viewed his passengers, too, as a “flock” whose needs he tended.

Lying on the floor yesterday morning practicing yoga,  Gibson, the tiny lab pup, began licking my face as if he hadn’t been loved in 30 years let alone his 9 weeks of life. Thanks to Gibson, I now understand Govan Brown’s secret. Life is less about climbing the  peaks and more about finding the grooves.

*Govan Brown info inspired by NY TIMES (11-15-08)