Deepak Chopra – Milking the Sacred Cow
 by Martin Higgins

As with off-brand champagne, after all the Y2K DotCom bubbles had burst, we were left with a cheap, flat wine of an economy that brought on raging headaches, emotional dehydration, and financial delirium tremens.

     Wifey and I had socked away enough Microsoft and Startup paychecks to lay back into the soft, fleecy embrace of Marin County parenthood and the daughties were eight and eleven.      

     We had a substantial, deep water pool with a nice home attached and four chickens roosting in the pump house. Add to that brood, a champion-bred Irish Wolfhound, a muttmix Tennis Ball Retriever, and a revolving population of feline Snowballs.

     All we lacked to flesh out the opening stanza of a Folk Rock anthem was a washed up, alky warbler living next door with a tattoo of John Prine’s spud-like visage on her prebutt.

      We did have a retired veterinarian within hailing distance and, for that, we were grateful.

      Laura and I worked on, well past the crash, taking on projects with online associates who also relished the Home Office hours of sometime after waking to sometime after the 4:30 Dirty Martini. Life was good, the hens were laying and the girls had friends, sleep-over parties and good grades.

      So it was only a wild-hair whim that made me take a second look at a Marin Independent Journal want ad, “IT/Web professional sought by Novato supplement distributor for marketing project.” Oddball gigs have always put gourmet bread on my table, interesting guitars in my studio and, in one dazzling side-job example, a fresh Nissan 300ZX in my garage.

      Besides, Novato was only a few exits up 101 and, if nothing else, I felt like a change-of-pace.

      I got it.

   After signing in at the front desk of Eckhart Corp, I was lead to a conference room. The walls were lined with dozens of shelves that displayed hundreds of bottles of vitamins, supplements, minerals, herbs, neutraceuticals, botanicals…

      Oy, a Health Food store pill distributor. Why is it that everyone who works in a health food store looks like they need a decent meal, a set of barbells and a delousing? Oh well, maybe I’ll pick up some huckster skills; learn to peddle Purple Bark Sarsaparilla Tonic to the Clems.

      The receptionist brought me an unasked-for bottle of water and chirped, “Deepak will be with you in a moment.”

      Deepak? Could she be referring to Deepak Finnigan? Deepak Mastracola? No, no… I knew well who would soon be sitting across the conference table from me.

     I wondered if Eckhart Corp might include Eckhart Tolle, another Chopra-like spirtual/science sausage-maker. During the `90’s I had had a good deal of exposure to both of these metaphysical mesmerisers, along with numerous channellers, faith-healers, carny barkers and mountebanks, who showed me how one can embed a need in others and grow rich servicing it.

     Take a load of well-diced Wisdom-of-the-Ages, fold in a smattering of bleeding edge science theory, add in copious amounts of New Age mumbo-jumbo and run it all through the Seminar grinder. The resulting wonderwurst smacks of hoodoo, hoopla and high-tech honesty and, like street-corner hotdogs, satisfies the masses far more than Chateaubriand.

     And here I was in Deepak Chopra’s pill chamber, waiting for the reigning champ of palaver.

     I heard his voice before I saw his face, as he instructed another employee to join him in interviewing me. He entered the room, smiling broadly and for a moment I thought, I know a score of people who would pay a thousand bucks to be sitting in my seat right now. The twenty-something guy accompanying him never made eye contact with me, but I chalked that up to possibly being imprinted by foreign corporate culture. Once introductions were out of the way, I handed Mr.C my C.V. and re-capped my web-specific experiences and employers.

     While I spoke, I got the strongest sense that he wasn’t listening to me at all.

     He smiled a suspiciously overbroad smile and said, “How would you induce people to buy my products?” Well, that was direct enough. No sense talking about capabilities and approaches, just give him the solution. I had expected a bit of the old philosophical, spiritual grounding to build our conversation upon, but we went right past the soup and salad to the meat of the meeting. Perhaps, I thought, I need to seed my answer with some insight into human behavior. After all, Deep had over three dozen Human Potential books in print at that time, plus audiobooks and videos. I’d seed the clouds and make some rain.

     But I kept it short and sweet. “Online. people seek out low-participation communities; a loose affiliation of like-minded people with whom they can communicate, while maintaining a neighborly wall of privacy. This behavior is addictive, since the benefits of friendship are available without the trials and hardships of real-world, realtime relationships.”

     It was 2004, and Facebook was just dawning on Zuckerberg. Deepak surprised me with his response.

     “Do you think having a contest or a game would work?”

     I paused for a second, weighing job/income and my honest evaluation of his suggestion.

     “No. Anyone can do a contest and there are always more losers than winners. Games are a diversion. What you are selling here,” I pointed to the shelves, “is health and vitality. That’s what you want your online community to focus on and share – that’s the key. In fact, participating in such a group and attending to one’s nutritional needs with others could require little more than a newsletter-styled weekly online publication, educational and instructional videos, participant testimonials and anecdotes, and timed reminder or limited-time bargain emails.”

     “You don’t think a contest would interest people?”

     I went into detail, explaining what I had learned at Microsoft and then put into practice at Red Sky Interactive, an online ad agency that handled Fortune 100 consumer brands. Chopra looked to his employee who looked back, blankly. They must have been communicating telepathically, because I couldn’t see any facial expression or hear them say a thing.

     “Can you come back later this afternoon? Perhaps 2 p.m.?” Deepak said politely.

     “Of course.”

     Chopra left the room and the twenty-something lead me to the reception area. I turned to confirm my 2 p.m. return at the door, but he had already turned and walked away.

     I sat in my car, rethinking what had happened. Where was the pop-culture holyman who holds throngs of true believers in thrall? Where was the analytical polymath who could mix the Vedanta and Quantum Physics, Buddhism and feel-good psychobabble, spirituality and nutrition, motivation and Cosmic Consciousness? The medical doctor who mashed up astronomy, DNA, herbs, gemstones and cosmic light therapies?

     This man had built a huge, lucrative empire answering people’s heartfelt questions with dizzying answers that had all the buzzwords and shiny objects and hope that the desperate crave. Yet no one, not even Chopra himself, seemed to be able to explain it all in a way that could be grasped and used by his devotees to do anything but feel more justified in being helpless. I understood the process he was using, but his product was as meaningful as a Mexican ball & cup game.

     I love the Carnival bally talkers that entice you to look inside the tent at “a modern miracle of science” like Princess Urayna... the Gorilla Girl!, or Volta, The Human Dynamo, or any of the other quasi-scientific attractions that lend the Midway’s passing parade a moment or two of diversion from the daily humdrum of life. Chopra is a self-made impresario; a fascinating example of performance being far more valuable than content.

     Damn, I’m crazy about hucksters.

     P.T. Barnum would hire him to woo the crowds and McLuhan would designate his style “Hot Communication.” In the grand traditions of Improvisational Theatre, constructing a smooth, unbroken stream of ideas has always drawn in the audience, lent veracity to the wildest notions and established the speaker as the unchallenged center of attention. Barnum could speed lollygagging groups of people through his exhibits and out of the building by posting a sign that read, “This way to the Egress!” Not knowing that egress meant exit, they found themselves outside the exhibit hall. Want to go back in? Please pay admission fee...

     In his final years, Lenny Bruce discovered that it was not the words in his comedy routines that invoked the laughter, but the timing and rhythm of the delivery. To prove it, he’d set up a joke and, in place of the punchline, say, “Yadda, yadda, yadda.” The laughter was indistinguishable from that produced by the words that were replaced with his comedic scatting. It seems Chopra has mastered an even more esoteric version of this subterfuge.

     I wanted to work with this guy. Just being in his proximity, I could learn volumes about captivating an audience by hodgepodging my scientific and metaphysical knowledge into a “rap,” and executing conceptual leaps-of-faith that make mere atomic quantum leaps look like child’s play. Imagine having P.T. Barnum’s crowd-pleasing prowess without having to manage the Freak Show, negotiate with Hottentots or clean up after the elephants.

     When I returned to Eckhart, the twenty-something met me at the door.

     “Deepak has decided to go in a different direction. Thank you for coming in.”

     I nodded, drew a deep breath, and hurried along to see the Egress.
​
                                                 -          end     -
Martin Higgins…
…is an award-winning filmmaker, writer, and stand-up comic who produces and directs television, theater, radio, and live performance comedy. 
Marty also wishes to inform the participants in the Occupy (insert location name here) Protesters that he continues to receive mail addressed to them.                 

copyright mjh 2005
all rights reserved 

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