MOLI VIEW™

The Yogipoof, a modern, ultracomfy version of a beanbag, is one of those brilliant reinventions that works. I have never thought of a beanbag as a therapeutic piece of furniture, let alone something attractive, but here it is. This is anything but the old version.

Pre-Yogipoof, beanbags were too-small vinyl things or awkward giant lumps that friends' misguided parents tried to employ in their daily, or nightly, lives. Here's an example: I was in my friend Roy's room, circa 1979, soon after his father, newly single and hoping for action, had tried and failed to have great sex with a girlfriend on a man-sized leatherette cushion. She'd given the offensive-looking mega-beanbag — and the apparently offensive suitor — a vicious heave-ho. Roy and I were on the other side of the door listening to the date crash and burn in the living room, and we watched through the windows as she exited the building three floors down, flicking her shag haircut as she hailed a cab.

Roy's father walked in a few minutes later, looking miserable. He was dragging the corpse of the leatherette mistake behind him. "You want this?" he said.

"Sure, Dad," Roy said, with an amazingly straight face. "It's okay. I know how you feel."

"Thanks," his father said, and then, to my horror, sat down on the cushion, just to have some company, and held his newly permed head in his hands. The cushion squealed as he shifted uncomfortably and began trashing Roy's mother, his ex-wife, then the girlfriend, then pretty much every woman in the city of New York, and on from there.

"They don't get it," he said. "We have feelings too. I was just trying to rock her stupid little world anyway."

"Her loss," Roy said, then flashed me our "I'm lying" secret look: a middle finger held against his chin, as if in thought, but really in conspiracy.

Previous Page  1  2  Next Page