A Pile of Feng Shui

I'm forever bemused by the relentlessly hip and their insatiable search to be "au courant." The only thing more pretentious is their contempt for anyone a tick lower on the hipness meter as if bondage to the latest fads and their nerdy cousins, electronic gadgets, was somehow worthy of emulation.

A few years back, the "simplicity movement" was sizzling as trendsetters determined it was chic to downsize their lives. But instead of just doing it, they started clubs, newsletters and Web sites and hired consultants, thereby managing to even screw up simplicity.

The fashionable set is particularly fascinated by anything Far Eastern -- religions, alternative medicines, martial arts and holistic meditation (which, BTW, research indicates a 30-minute catnap achieves the same results). Sort of like popping an Orient pill without having to alter their destructive lifestyles and manic consumption, the root of their stress in the first place.

One vastly popular fix is "feng shui," pronounced fung shway, an ancient Chinese method of design to create positive Qi (Ch'i) or life force. For instance, a feng shui consultant, using a special compass, determines the zones of his mark's, er, ah, client's backyard in tune with various earth forces that, when landscaped with the correct element like a water pond, metal sculpture or eternal flame, can release nature's healing energy and reduce stress. There's no mention of flowers; maybe that calls for another consultant. Frankly, I find words that have to be spelled phonetically to pronounce raise my stress level.

Before their deaths, my parents had gardens for years. Considering we were a consultant-challenged family, they seemed genuinely pleased with their results, celebrating small victories over weeds and varmints. Mom's flowers grew with amazing ferocity while Dad's daily harvest kept us in veggies all summer. After my father died, my mother struggled to keep the remnants of at least their flower beds blooming. At the end of the day, she would rest on the back steps and remember Dad laughing about a mutant zucchini that looked like Dwight Eisenhower or surprising her with cut flowers for the dinner table. She had a peacefulness and serenity feng shui faddists will never know regardless of how much they fork out for consultants, ponds and sculptures.

Then there was a string of fixes like Buddhist retreat centers to raise consciousness and reduce stress. Now the same people are "extreme" vacationing and swimming with sharks. Guess the stress avoidance thingy didn't take. There's full body scanning to discover any imperfections that may be lurking in joints and organs turning what were perfectly good hypochondriacs into complete neurotics. Unfortunately the scan doesn't detect the gullibility aneurysm. We've gone through New Age crystal groping, Drumming, Ti Chi, cleansing and wilderness camping that promises campers they will get in touch with their subconscious fears and unrealized inner strengths. And we can't forget the Supplement Flavor of the Month like ginkgo biloba and St. John's Wort and now green tea, MonaVie and spring water diets. (Remember, Evian spelled backwards is "naïve.")

But the latest and, without a doubt, goofiest nostrum to come along is yoga for dogs or "Doga." One Web site insists, "Dogs (are) natural yogis with their tranquility of mind, living in the moment and contented outlook" -- something others might ascribe to their tiny brainpan. In a video, a dozen solemn-faced, leotarded women prop, stretch and dangle their mutts into something like Downward-Facing Cockamamie assisting the "dogis" on their "paths to joyous awareness and inner harmony." The site also offers tips on proper "dogic" breathing techniques like "hot breath" and "pant," presumably in case your dog forgot how to do that. There was nothing about existential slobbering.

The site concludes: "Many humans, however, would not recognize Doga, but merely assume the dog was scratching or thinking about dinner." No crap!