The camera fades in from tie dye to reveal a heated session of hot yoga taking place in a crowded studio with nice wood paneling and tons of smelly incense. A tall, shadowy figure stands even taller at the head of the class as he dons the head of a wolf on his head like he is about to audition for The Revenant II: Too Much To Bear. The tall, shadowy figure seems to be speaking Pig Latin or some other made up language that only he and his disciples can understand but you are OK with that fact because it gives the whole situation more gravitas for some unknown reason, sort of like when you watch a foreign film with subtitles and get real lazy about two thirds of the way through the thing so you just stop reading the subtitles and start using your imagination to pretend what the people are saying so like, for example, when the old lady pulls over at the gas station to ask for directions to her grandchildren's piano recital, you think that she is asking the cashier when the next Prince album is going to be released (unfortunately for the poor old lady, the news of the artist formerly known as the Artist Formerly Known as Prince sailing off into the velvet sunset has yet to reach her serene retirement community in the French Alps). A beautiful instrumental, warmer and fuzzier than the inside of an Eddie Bauer fleece, rains down on the hot yoga studio with the gravity of a thousand space movies starring Sandra Bullock and George Clooney or as I like to call them, the mayors of that town in The Truman Show. People are struggling mightily but the kind looking teacher refuses to relent, doubling down on his excitement as each exclamation rings as loud as a thousand text message *ding* alerts. Encouragement is an understatement as the tall, shadowy wolf man is literally (not literally) catching the group in the largest collective trust fall since that one time that Johnny Depp tried leaping into a pile of some of his scarves from atop a Whole Foods only to find out what the strongest fabric in the world really is: cashmere wool. The figurewolfhead is draped in a Mexican poncho that has a Rosetta Stone Brewing Co. logo scrawled across its chest to match perfectly with his whole mysteriously unintelligible gestalt. (Mysteriously Unintelligible Gestalt is my least favorite show about aliens on the History Channel - you can't make sense of a lick of the darn Tootsie Pop and I don't care if you ARE a woodland creature!...That's pretty cool if you ARE a woodland creature and reading this, though - what's the password for your tree stump's WiFi, by the way? How do you know which branches are hot spots? Do they have Starbuckses in nature?) All of a sudden, roll tide turns to stop, drop and roll tide as the real life Slender Man tumbles into a spider web of his own architecture (not Spider Man for once, the superhero that leaves the most traps for innocent people other than Venus Humantrap who is really more of a super villain if we are going to be completely fair and call a spade a super villain). His arms and legs become seemingly detached from reality as they begin flowing freer than the feathery waves of the Hawaiian archipelago that are pumped through his bloodstream. Flailing to and fro, the scene turns into the total eclipse of Chuck Norris as an audible gasp is reportedly recorded on the iPhones of the wokest participants in the previously zen yoga class, so zen that Phil Jackson is trying to sue the entire Walton family (including the fictional family from the 70s sitcom in a strange turn of events as Jackson uncharacteristically got his reality and pop culture wires crossed...Jackson hasn't gotten this confused since he sent his MRI results to a young Neil Patrick Harris and eagerly awaited his response with bated breath as he baited his fly fishing hook on his legend...wait for it...dary pontoon on the majestic Flathead Lake.), an abrupt U turn in the whole being zen and chill and letting everything flow off your back like hot water in a shower or the Golden State Warriors offense against the local chapter of the Elk's club's best starting five. His students stream out of the room, salmon swimming upstream in a river of madness, as Thrashes With Wolves continues to pitter patter back and afro. Trapped in a series of debilitating installments of acid flashbacks, the one show that you do NOT want to binge watch on Netflix or wherever you catch your visions of psychedelia, the grizzly bear of a man crumples to the nice wood paneling in a heap of tears (mostly for fears) but not before politely offering the camera operators a coconut with their name on it like how you would buy a little license plate with your name on it at a museum gift shop. They courteously decline the offer and slowly back away before finally turning and running a 40 yard dash faster than Rich Eisen in the general direction of the foothills of Baja California.
Buy Chris's books SPONGE CAKE & WHAT'S IN THE FRIDGE? on Amazon
No comments:
Post a Comment