[WARNING: This post contains video footage of punk awesomeness. We recommend you watch each clip in the order presented, and not just skip it all. For many of you this will be completely new territory. Get some headphones, take a few minutes of your life, open up the ol' mind grapes, and enjoy.]
Hey. Stop me if you’ve heard this one:
Q: How many rockstar yogis does it take to change a light bulb?
A: None. Rockstar yogis can’t change anything!
Har har har har har…. Haw haw haw haw…. Hehehehehe….
But seriously, what the hell is this??? Lately, there have been a number of blogs (specifically YogaDork and Bernadette Birney) posting rants on the so-called “rockstar yogi,” presumably in light of the upcoming “Rock Your Yoga” television silliness that’s about to yawn across America. It’s nice to see people holding the whole buffoonery to the coals a bit, but we’ve got to say that the biggest critique that can be hurled at all this happens to be just left of YogaDork’s piece on the matter. I mean, forget about yoga, people. Rockstars in and of themselves are just total douchebags! Didn’t you know that?! Like, straight up. I mean, like, calling yourself a “rockstar yogi” is like calling yourself a “douchebag yogi.” It’s weird. Even weirder than DNA performing “Blonde Red Head” while Basquiat graffitis awesomeness across NYC!
Now that’s some dope punk NYC style! I once had the exquisite pleasure of dancing to 60s soul music for five hours straight next to this man. Most of the records were his, and he’s still a freak footed magician of cool!
If, like me, you grew up cutting your teeth on punk fanzines and 7″s, than you know what I’m getting at. Rockstars are the windbags of music. Rockstars are elitist fakes and the butt of all funny jokes. F– that! To the independent musician–to the punk kid–rockstars are the frickin’ joke!
The fact is, rockstars are entirely commercial. They’re the pawns of image factories. They’re vacant. They’re empty. They’re non-threatening.
And yet, like some poetic just desserts, it comes as no surprise that the so-called “rockstar yogi” is almost always found working within the most commercial aspects of yoga culture, themselves media-obsessed personalities. As such, what can they possibly offer us that Fugazi hasn’t already provided in a single live version of “Waiting Room” circa 1988? Now this is some community!
So, if you’re one of those out there all bent out of shape on becoming a “rockstar yogi,” please don’t take it personally if we never buy any of your records.
This message has been brought to you by “Meaningless Rockstar Yogi Mudras” as performed by the very hot Bret Michaels of Poison. I mean, come on…. Look at that mouth!