By Sam Bondy I drink, so this semester, I decided that as a panacea for my ailing-liver, I would endeavor to try hot, holistic, hipsteric yoga. Catharsis. Or so I thought. As I entered “Yoga Body Shop” (the old place for all you noobies), near Wegmans, I felt terrified, like going to the doctor for a shot kind of terrified. I was with my good friend, Jake, a three-year yogic veteran, as if I wouldn’t look…
The Last Refuge of Scholars