I’m no yoga purist. I can handle the fact that the ancient disciplined practice I follow has morphed into more varieties than there are unnecessary flavors of Ben and Jerry’s or spin-offs of Law and Order. I can accept acro-yoga, hot yoga, yoga and chocolate workshops, and even yoga studio/wine bars (though someone has yet to explain to me the connection between clearing ones mind and dulling it.) But at some point, somewhere, “yoga” ceases to be yoga.
Well, I found that point.
Whatever it is that is happening on Sundays at Maha Yoga in Brentwood, whatever bizarre, packed ritual it is that is being presided over by a man who bears an eerie resemblance to Frankenstein’s younger hippie brother in MC Hammer pants or to the guy who convinced those Nike-clad cult members in 1996 to down their cyanide applesauce so they could board the UFO, it sure as hell isn’t yoga.
I can handle botox-infused Brentwood housewives yammering about nothing as we wait in line. I can handle “righteous dudes” in frat necklaces and billabong gear jostling their way to the front of the line all the while smiling those fake “Its all good… but if I had a choice I’d stab you in the back and enjoy it” smiles that are so popular in Los Angeles. I can handle music cranked up to 12 and vague and barely audible “alignment” instructions that sound like they are being delivered by a ESL instructor with a speech impediment. I can handle the dude in front of me who thinks that this is his personal time to practice nothing but handstands even if he’s falling on other people’s mats. And I can even maybe handle the mid-class back massages that spontaneously erupt between students and the prolonged gooey hugs Ross inflicts upon his mostly female minions.
There is a point, however, where I draw the line. There is a point where I wonder what the difference is between this and some weird sweaty pit of self-congratulatory Southern Californian chaos. Half the class stops practicing whenever they want and “does their own thing”. The other half half-heartedly listens to the cult leader and loudly discusses what they’re going to do after class throughout the entire 90 minutes. And, true to character, Billabong dude has his blackberry out by his mat and is repeatedly pausing, mid-”pose” to send texts. Texts. Not to sound like a puritan, but that’s not yoga.
You might ask why get so incensed about a silly yoga class. Well first, as I said, its not yoga. As many varieties of Yoga as there are, there is one binding and defining thread — a basic principle, illuminated 2,000 years ago (and now tattooed into my forearm) — yoga is the practice of stilling the mind.
Yoga is not texting, or talking incessantly, or saying: “look at me.” Yoga is not discussing what you are going to do later. You might be able to get a fine, sweaty workout doing any of those things, which is perfectly great. But you aren’t doing yoga.
Steve Ross, whose surprisingly well-written book — which he clearly didn’t actually write — is called: “Happy Yoga” might argue that yoga is about doing whatever you feel in the moment as long as it makes you happy. I’m sure that’s an argument that his Los Angeline flock would love to hear. Nothing pumps up a crowd of Angelinos more than being told that doing whatever they want whenever they want is not only ok, its actually spiritual. Steve Ross’s class is spiritual in the same way that buying a $20 million “green” estate actually helps the environment — i.e. it isn’t, and it doesn’t.
Everything that was reinforced in Ross’s class — having no concern about those around you, having no discipline or inner quiet, paying no attention, and doing whatever you want whenever you want — runs completely contrary to yoga. Its the yoga of “dammit I deserve that SUV,” the yoga of checking your daily yoga class off your to do list, the yoga of “hey guess what, I’m doing yoga, OMG, what are you doing LATER?”
So yes, Steve Ross is clearly the anti-Christ. Not because of the crazed and vacuous grin that can only be the result of some form of spiritual ice-pick administered directly into his frontal lobe. Not because of that godawful picture from Steve’s website of him leering in front of a pastel mandala — though that certainly adds to the case. I choose the word ‘anti-Christ’ very specifically because the values that are on display on Sundays at Maha Yoga are the exact opposite of humility, self-reflection, awareness, serenity, kindness, and respect.
Given current global conditions, the philosophy of do whatever you want whenever you want is quite possibly soon to be an endangered species. And if that’s a scary thought, which it probably is to most in the greater Brentwood area, then I have a great suggestion: go do some yoga.
I write this in all seriousness, because I hope somewhere, pre-apple sauce Steve knows this is true and will start actually teaching yoga again.
_____
Final note. Before you start wincing about the excoriation I just delivered and actually start feeling bad for the man, please take into account the following:
1) He’s above it all.
Anyone with that kind of enlightened smile probably doesn’t care about a silly internet twit like me writing derogatory things about him. Whatever I write simply passes through that spiritual sieve of a mind like fluffy hairballs passing through a high powered British vacuum cleaner. So I might as well write exactly what I want, as I know there is no way that anything I write will have even the smallest effect on a master like Steve.
2) He’s a millionaire.
I don’t really have the bank account stats to back it up, but the man has his own Oxygen network show, Yoga Studio, and throngs of fans who line up down the block for his Sunday classes. If for some reason he is devastated by this article, he can easily take solace in his coven of silicone-enhanced Brentwoodettes.
3) This isn’t really about Steve, its about Los Angeles. And America. And something we probably should get through our thick heads sooner rather than later.
Posted by schreiwire 
Posted by schreiwire 
Posted by schreiwire 
