Neal Pollack's humor tends toward the snarky, with a very sharp eye for the foibles of contemporary culture. After getting trashed by a New York Times book review for looking doughy and having thinning hair, he experiences a bit of personal crisis. He's no Saint Augustine, and the depths of his angst are toward the shallow end of the pool. He starts doing yoga at a 24 hour fitness center, and discovers that he likes it and it seems to do something a bit more worthwhile than tone his abs. He begins to suspect that yoga might help him reconnect with his best self, an entity which he hasn't seen since his less sophisticated youth, before becoming an edgy writer.
Along the way, he explores many of the wacky and creative versions of yoga in the United States, including an overly severe vegan style in New York, and yoga rave music. He settles on a more traditional school, ashtanga, and eventually studies with a serious, renowned teacher overseas. His humor is often funniest, though, when it's turned on himself, including some silly but entertaining sessions with a chiropractor, problems with barfing, and the mandatory flatulence-at-yoga scene.
Pollack has a keen eye for the American yoga scene and understands well the different schools of yoga study and practice. We root for him as he stumbles on his enlightenment road, although he never seems to recognize that doing marijuana through a vaporizer is probably not auspicious practice. Namaste, Neal.