I love L.A. ... aside from the earthquakes, Hollywood moshers, Prius congestion, CamryDriver, jaywalkers on their cellphones holding their baby, dime-a-dozen fake blondes with their spotlight ambitions, and the ever present "I'm a brain surgeon, but I'd give it all up tomorrow so I can ACT" dream-chasers. Really, a great place to live. I'd live no where else.
Of course, considering I HAVEN'T lived anywhere else, my opinion is slightly skewed.
Yet, there is one thing about Los Angeles that should be a negative, but isn't. It's those damn yoga chicks scurrying around, unintentionally whacking you with their oversized rolled mats as they pass you donned in the latest $100 pants from Lululemon, perfect hair, bejeweled iPhone, and Half Caff Latte. These are what I call the SPGers, or "Spectacular Pants Goddesses". For them, yoga is less about the discipline, and more about a fashion statement. When they hit the yoga studio, in their small mind it's high school all over again, and they're the numero uno "don't look at me you freak" hot shit chick. The world of yoga (at least, here in L.A.), there are three sects of yoga person -- the True Believers (frazzled hair, no make-up, crap clothes, all about the yoga and nothing else... arm pit hair optional); the Moderates (stylish but not consumed by it, serious about yoga, takes care of their appearance); and the SPGers (fashionistas, high drama, owns a small dog, always on cell phone, high school was the zenith of their life... and they're 27!). Like the squeaky wheel, the two extremes dominate -- the true Believers with their Patchouli stench, and the SPGers with their visual stench -- leaving the Mods the dominant but shadowed yoga society, which to them is most likely just fine.
But nature always has a countermeasure, always a cure, to any disease or virus. In the case of the SPGers, it's the "Guru". Certainly, there are real, salt-of-the-earth individuals who HAVE been to India, HAVE extensively studied, and ARE masters of the discipline. What I'm speaking of here are the fake-o's, the ones so desperate for attention and purpose they literally re-invent themselves into what can only be described as a demigod. They quote Rumi. They chant. They dress (and smell) the part. They own a SAG card. And the SPGs gobble them up like fresh kill to a hungry pack of wolves, for the SPGers are searching for purpose as well, something to latch on to and exclaim "this is what I'M all about". As an unusual sort of mini ecosystem, the Guru and the SPG tribe inhabit the same occupied space and co-exist together, one in desperate need of the other, incapable of survival without the partnership.
The SPGers trek with the Guru as he's booted from studio to studio (since he hasn't a clue what he's doing), spewing venom about the former en route to their future target. And all the while, the Guru rakes in the bank. He has shirts, booklets, CDs, yoga retreats, every item designed to rip every penny from every SPGer who blindly follows him. In the end, many ultimately lose their connection with the demigod (usually when they find they're not the only follower he's having sex with), and head off to worship the latest Yoga Guru to hit the town.
Which, of course, gives them plenty of time to reload their bank account.
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