Funny

I was reading recently that humans are the only mammals who hide their private parts. Obviously, we are also the only mammals to wear clothes. But what if we walked around with our privates exposed? Would you think differently of a good friend you discovered had a tiny wanker? Would an Amazon rainforest sprouting just south of one’s equator make you opt out of lunch? Would you be able to keep a straight face if your 1:30pm meeting had, er, ah, um…something reminding you of a droopy elephant?

Why are we so embarrassed about our privates? The chimpanzees certainly aren’t. Nor are the whales, monkeys, dolphins, or fishies. But us humans wouldn’t dare walk into a public park naked without being arrested. I don’t get it.

12 years ago I attended a naked hot spring retreat called Esalen. At first, I found it extremely awkward to be naked around strangers and went so far as to cover myself before entering the hot springs. But by the end of the weekend, it actually seemed normal and we even called each other by affectionate nicknames like FurryFrieda, DroopyDon, MohawkMaggie, and FreckleDick (short for Richard).

It wasn’t too long ago that I ran into FurryFrieda in the lobby of the Exhale Center for Sacred Movement yoga studio in Venice. Let’s just say when I screamed “Oh My God FurryFrieda how the hell are ya?! I haven’t seen you in years!” that she was less than thrilled to see me and the 73 people waiting in the lobby for Saul David Raye’s morning yoga class were very, very, very curious.

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We (or at least “I”) spend so much time and energy covering up our fears, neuroses, issues, and privates that we have little time and energy left over to enjoy life. A 2004 survey by Dove Soap found that only 2% of women consider themselves beautiful.* Can you stand naked in front of the mirror, if not in front of DroopyDon and MohawkMaggie, and love yourself and all your imperfections?

Kahlil Gibran once wrote, “For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun!”  For what is it to, in this very moment, stop what you’re doing, and realize: your life is perfect, you’re right where you’re supposed to be, and even if you have a tiny wanker, the people who really, truly, deeply love you won’t care in the slightest. At least I don’t think they will.

I rolled out my green Spiritual Gangster Guru Mat the other day for a home practice. As I settled into my first down dog, over comes my 4 month old rescue puppy Gibson. Still too young to lift his leg, he stood still and in super slow mo I watched him pee all over my mat. I couldn’t help but laugh. Anything little Gibson does is just adorable. But puddles of foreign liquid on the yoga mat, 9 times out of 10, are just awful.

Tell me if you’ve endured the following. You are practicing yoga in a sweaty yoga class, and the teacher says, “Warrior 3.” That smelly man in front of you sticks his foot in the air. You watch drops of sweat leave his ankle hairs and fall down on your mat. Coming out of Warrior 3 to place your hands on the mat for standing splits, you navigate to avoid touching that foreign liquid as ferociously as you’d steer clear of a drunk man in a speedo.

One drop of the wrong person’s sweat on my mat could drive me crazy. But I would gladly let my dog kiss me on the lips even though he licks his dog berries after lunch. Is something wrong here?

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In March 2002, eleven people abandoned a 260 foot ship about 800 miles south of Hawaii. They left the captain’s dog, a terrier named Hokget, adrift at sea. People caught wind of this story. Money started pouring into the Hawaiian Humane Society which paid $48,000 to a private company called American Marine to look for the ship. Air, sea, and high-tech surveillance equipment were all pressed into service. No luck. Finally, 6 weeks later, after the Coast Guard agreed to access $250,000 US taxpayer dollars, the dog was found…shaken, scared, but still alive hiding under a pile of tires. (See above picture of Hokget, with sun-burned nose, upon his safe arrival in Honolulu on May 2, 2002) When $300,000 is spent to rescue a dog but nearly 1 in 4 children across America are struggling with hunger, does that seem weird?

There’s one thing that us humans are suckers for. Receiving unconditional love. And humans, barring saints or nuns, don’t love unconditionally. We just don’t. Piss off your husband and he won’t jump in your arms and lick your face. Punish your teenager and chances are slim she’ll cuddle you one second later. Being this is my first dog since early youth, I’m realizing what a gift it is to have a bad day and look to Gibson for a good, slobbering smooch. Everytime we’re kissing I can practically hear him say, “It doesn’t bother me one bit that in most of your Facebook pictures you have a double chin. I just wanna love you and love you and love you some more.”

Is it me or is that worth over $300,000?

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.”

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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?