"You know the stereotype of the yoga teacher and all the airhead bimbo groupies hanging around him, clinging on to his every word hoping it will somehow undo their panties which are in a twist?" So asks submitter Hernandez, as he directs me to Paul Broomfield's site, which apparently epitomizes this phenomenon. Look, Hernandez, I must admit I'm not at all familiar with this stereotype. As someone who works in rural Missouri, I'm not really privy to the social dynamics of the yoga studio. Also, the interaction as he describes it occurs in only one of Broomfield's many posts:
Broomfield: i think it must be a montreal thing, but i have never in my life had so many people try and read so much into who i am now by my past before. as though they're going to garner some grand keystone to Paul Broomfield. I am the keystone. right now .... i'm going to have a cuppa tea. it is not a sign of good health to be well adjusted to insane times. living in a time with billions of "sheeple" as i heard on south park the other day, celebrating todays conformists and deifying past rebels.i am not well adjusted right now.
sexy_boo: Marie-Eve i think you should take a chill pill, relax.. do what you need to do in the bedroom and then go to our yoga class (Monday nights) .... Knowing that you get so "aroused" while i might be sitting right next to you disgusts me.
Marie-Eve: Sexy boo, I'm sorry if I may seems disgusting to you but I'll go on with my yoga on monday nights and don't feel ashamed for enjoying it. :)
Broomfield wraps up the subsequent 20-comment exchange by musing about how he "went to the movie kick ass (pg-13) and saw countless deaths and gore and no, pardon the term, titty shots. rest assured, if there was, gasp, a nipple, then it would have been notched up to an R rating." Um, Paul, it was rated R, or 18A as some Canadians say. And here is the real problem with Broomfield's blog, not so much the yoga groupies leaving their cell phone numbers in the comments section, but more so that the content of his actual posts is usually something like this:
ooh what to write. feel like the spotlight's on me. anticipation as to whether i can rebound from the chaos of... whatever that post i titled the other day.
hmmm, my poops are better than your poops. how about that? just like an amazingly stereotypical spoken word show where the "performers" don't necessarily perform the spoken word, but rather read the spoken word of how much pain they have, or even how much pain the world has. hence, turning it into a reading word night.
and most of the poetry is stuff that we already know. just like what i have written here is stuff that everybody already knows. unless you didn't know it, but that's irrelevant, you would have known it eventually and then this would have all been superfluous diatribe. trite and a touch condescending.
uh oh. maybe i'm boring someone. or maybe i've offended someone. gotta keep it quick and snappy if i'm going to keep the middle of the road populace inline. god knows i have to make money off this. yup the almighty dollar.
life is a roly poly guacamole.
It's just unfortunate that this allegedly prevalent "male yoga teacher whose pompous ramblings are encouraged by smitten female students" stereotype has moved from yoga studios, where I'd never have any reason to care about it, to the online realm, where people like Hernandez can see it and feel compelled to alert me to its terrible existence.
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After years of being misunderstood, I had hoped we finally had "our" story. I was wrong.
He had a yellow inflatable tube around his waist, the kind with a comical duck head. There was a tiny fish in one of his hands, and a trident in the other. In the background a squirrel wearing shades was water skiing.
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