letter from a yoga instructor
On the last day of Fashion Week, a very long legged person in hot shorts and fishnets appeared at my doorstep. It was Wonkette videographer and yoga instructor Liz Glover, bearing many gifts: interviews with Russell Simmons and Ivana Trump discussing world affairs! Brandon Davis! A Polaroid of her and Vince Gallo! Also, a baggily dressed student. "How did you get Vincent Gallo to talk to you?" I wondered. "Well, I told him that Gawker may be mean, but that I teach yoga, and I believe in karma," she said sunnily. She had similarly won herself entrance to Zac Posen, Calvin Klein and numerous parties we couldn't. But it was a double-edged sword: Fashion Week, she found, was full of negative energy, misaligned chakras and spiritual hunger. (And also: hunger.) It was so disturbing, in fact, she felt she wanted to write a personal plea for self-love to all its participants. As her pupil massaged our cat — he was headed on a retreat in Hawaii the next day, and he needed Liz to sign a release form ("You know us Libras, we can't decide if we're going till the spur of the moment like that") — and Liz told us about the disturbing orgy at the Russell Simmons party, we decided it was a message that deserved to be aired.
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