Max-stravaganza

There are two struggles in practicing yoga. The first is the actual class. The second is the perpetual, losing battle of attempting to explain to outsiders just how strenuous 90 minutes of stretching can be. Because to most, yoga is the athletic equivalent of cranberry juice; good on occasion, but normally reserved for women on their periods. Stretching and standing, holding your own body weight, keeping your arms in the air, deep breathing. Doesn't seem that difficult. Three year olds can do it. Let me tell you, when done correctly, it feels like your soul was sucked out through your pores . Some alleged "restorative" poses are tantamount to having your hips wrung through a medieval torture device...and you're doing it to yourself. But Yoga isn't just for spiritual masochists and flexible deviants. There is another contingent who accepts Yoga as a strenuous exercise. A group that prides themselves on good posture...and firmed glamour muscles .

As an alternately underpaid/unpaid Hollywood intern, you always have to fake that you're "just lucky to have the experience." You're "thankful to be working with such great people" and "truly blessed to be learning so much." It's institutionalized bullshit, insisting that the emasculating experience is more important than full time employment. But recently, I have been genuinely lucky to be working with one particular individual...as from my office/copy room, I now have a front row seat for their slow, devastating, full-on Travis Bickle descent into insanity. I'm not going to say who this person is. Everyone in Hollywood knows everyone else. But it's someone I either work for or with. Man or woman. Executive or artist. Director or designer. I'm not saying. I plead the fif . Over the past month, this individual has slowly lost his or her grasp on reality. Symptoms include: Seeing things that aren't there. Gross paranoia. An eve

As 2010 came to a close, it was a time for mass reminiscing, nostalgia and saccharine year end best of lists (who, for the most part, are always composed of the same 9 movies with the exception with one sly declaration of youth sandwiched in a list of safe classics). For young adults of a certain age, it meant that we had to take a second ride on the nostalgia express. Five years had passed since graduation, so it was high time that the high school development office bug us for money under the auspicious guise of a "reunion." The five year high school reunion. Not much has changed, except that now we were legally drinking on campus as opposed to sneaking off to the bathroom to take a pull off a bottle of generic vodka. Now, I hate to generalize or make blanket statements, but there is absolutely no reason to have a five year reunion. Unless, of course, it were to take place more than five years from graduation (e.g. when people actually have something to say about their li