Originally published in The Faster Times. Since then, I've taught another yoga class, and six people attended, seven if you count the beautiful woman who stopped in for a while because she thought it was her feminist issues discussion group. She did yoga on a mat for 15 minutes before she thought to ask what was actually happening. In any case, here's an account from February:
One Thursday night last month, I taught a yoga class. It was the first in a series I’ve scheduled in L.A. leading up the monumental cultural event that will be the August publication of my yoga memoir Stretch. I figured the class, like most things yoga-related, could serve more than one function. Maybe I’d build a little audience for the book while also honing my yoga-talking and yoga-teaching skills. Essentially, it would be the yoga equivalent of an out-of-town opening.
I’d been preparing for weeks. First, I reserved the Shakti Box, a pleasant, warm, well-appointed space above the Video Hut near the corner of Vermont and Franklin. Some friends of mine had taught there. I liked the fact that it offered few frills, and also that it was very clean. Until the spring of 2009, it had been the private practice space of a nice woman named Edie, and then she decided to share the love. In addition to yoga, Edie books regular improv classes and a “Women’s Circle” at the Box, so clearly she’s open to different stuff. When I approached her with my idea for a “yoga comedy night,” she didn’t hang up on me immediately. She didn’t even hang up when I told her I was going to call the class “Club Sutra.” She offered a really reasonable rental price. Club Sutra was go.
