Wednesday, December 10, 2008

8 mile

Well, I think it's pretty obvious who the Dumb ass of the week is. Unquestionably, the award is bestowed to Plaxico Buress, a wide receiver for the New York Giants football team.

If you haven't heard already, numb nuts took a loaded weapon to a nightclub, and accidentally shot his stupid ass self in the leg. Right. In. The. Leg. I think I may have to repeat this for the sake of clarity; this man entered a night club with a LOADED weapon concealed in the waistline of his PANTS. And the only reason, he got caught for doing so illegally, was the minute fact that the gun accidentally discharged while in his trousers. And I thought this sort of thing only happened to fictional characters like Cheddar Bob.

What I think is even more asinine than the actual act of shooting himself in the leg, is that he is pleading not guilty to charges of criminal possession of a weapon, (basically carrying a weapon without a license) and carrying ammunition for said weapon. Both by the way, are Class C felonies, for which fuck face could be sentenced to 3 1/2 to 15 years in jail if convicted. Gee I wonder what the defense is going to use as their strategy; It wasn't me? Having to receive hospitalization for a gunshot wound from the very weapon you were carrying seems like very incriminating evidence to the contrary. a) You can't successfully shoot yourself in the leg without a gun and b) For you to receive a gunshot wound from the aforementioned weapon, there has to be the presence of ammunition. Guilty as charged, on both accounts.

I am sick and tired of hearing about these professional athletes with weapons in night clubs. How are they even allowed to bring firearms into nightclubs to begin with? If you're so worried about your safety, then hire a damn bodyguard or hang out with the offensive linemen. I'm pretty certain they could stop a bullet or two. Or here's a brilliant idea, If you're supposed to be recovering from an injury, how about not even going out to a fucking club to begin with? How bout that? Ass clown.

I don't think there should be any leniency because he's a professional athlete either. If anything, he should be prosecuted even more harshly for thinking he was above the law. I'm usually not one to desire ill towards my fellow man, but I gotta say, I hope he goes to jail. If for nothing else, just for being a dumb ass.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Quantum of Solace

I really wanted to love this movie. I was so excited to see it, that being let down was the farthest thing from my mind, even after I had discovered they weren't going to keep the same director as it's immediate predecessor, Casino Royale, which was brilliant, edgy, and refreshing. So much so, that I never resist watching it over and over again when the opportunity arises. The director got it right, the casting was spot on, and the actors stepped up to the plate. Most importantly, Daniel Craig hit a home run.

Quantum of Solace needed to be an equally hard hit line drive, but fizzled embarrassingly short of the outfield like a pop fly. Even the opening song was out of place for this movie. Madonna was criticized for her theme song in Die Another Day, to the point where it was left off the movie score entirely. I was amazed to find out that Alecia Keys was on this collaborative piece of crap with Jack White, that was extremely difficult to listen to. It was a rough start from the beginning my friends.

The bond girl was a perfect choice, the pouty Olga Kurylenko, who was in Hitman. However, her part was transparently staged and it seems as though they were trying to make her something the movie did not require her to be (a sniveling head case with daddy issues). Unfortunately, her part could have been extracted all together and we would have never noticed. Speaking of which, 007 didn't even seem remotely attracted to one of the hottest Bond girl's ever, although she was so notably distracted by her own childish antics, that I doubt she would have noticed being hit on anyway. They also tried too hard to make Bond this cold hearted killer on a vengeful rampage of retribution, but never once did he ever show any true emotion toward the woman who's death he was avenging. Actually, he couldn't have been more cavalier about her nonexistence. Is that irony?

On a positive note, all the action sequences were seamlessly executed and very exciting. I enjoyed all of them except for the end when the characters found themselves in some fuel cell powered hotel, (without any people in it mind you) going up in flames, in the middle of a remote desert in Bolivia. Lame. And to top it all off, the main villain in the movie could have very well been an angry Deer Park executive with desires to monopolize the world's water sources. Gee, so eerily sinister. No! You mean to tell me that we will all have to . . . . no, don't make me say it . . . . I refuse . . . . .have to . . . .have to . . . .BUY our water from YOU and no one else? Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Bitch please, can't I just get a ridiculously insane Eastern European villain with female issues and penis envy to build an over sized laser, and want nothing more than to disintegrate largely populated areas for no apparent reason other than his own maniacal amusement?

Even after all of the problems I had with this movie, it still wasn't awful. I guess that says something in itself. As a matter of fact, I'm going to go watch it again. I want to be sure my initial assessment was right. I mean, even I miss a few details from time to time. Besides, I really want to believe that it wasn't as bad as I thought. I'm hoping my expectations were just too high, and that after seeing it again, without being as critical, that I will enjoy it more. You know, sometimes movies have to grow on you. So, with all those things in mind, I think I'll give it another try. Perhaps I shall be the one needing a quantum of solace after watching it again, but let's hope not.

Monday, December 1, 2008

Interview With A Vampire

Well, against my better judgement, I finally succumbed to my sister's relentless pleading to read Twilight. I hope that she doesn't read this, (I feel that my honesty might crush her entirely) but here is what I thought about it in a nutshell; it was okay.

I feel that the story took entirely way too long to develop, and when the suspense had finally peaked, reaching the long awaited climax, much was left to be desired. Kind of like when you finally get to kiss your beautiful date at the end of a exquisite night, you disappointingly discover that a vacuum cleaner, or a Saint Bernard would be a better kisser. The story ended pretty much as ordinarily as it had begun, which after all that had transpired was a bit disappointing and left me with no overwhelming desire to want to read the other three that follow. Granted, I'm not a pubescent female teen, I still feel that a love story with dangerous vampires would have left me a little more satisfied. Of course, the allure of vampires being the only reason I even agreed to read a love story to begin with. And to pacify my sister's groveling pleas, obviously.

I don't mean to be entirely nit picky, but I think the writing wasn't that impressive either. I mean, if I'm going to spend my time reading 500 pages of anything, especially a book that has received as much praise as this one has, I generally prefer for the author to have superior writing skills to mine. Call me old fashioned, but I like authors to either spark my imagination, elicit thought, or keep me entranced with intrigue or suspense. And from time to time, I'm not against a chuckle or two. Not that I think I'm some great writer by any stretch of the imagination, but I suspect that I could have possibly written something comparable, at the very least, a little juicier.

Anyway, it wasn't a bad book by any means. It was a relatively fresh perspective on a subject that Ann Rice has had her fangs sunk into for as long as I can remember. I suppose I just expected more considering how popular the series has become, and how much my 39 year old sister insisted that I read them. I did have to take into consideration that all of her previous reading recommendations up to this point have been more than solid. So, I won't be holding this one against her. After all, unlike Edward . . . . . . . she's only human.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Billy Madison

I looked over to the lane next to mine as I was driving yesterday, to witness one of the more baffling traffic sights one can encounter. (besides motorcyclists being scraped off the pavement of course) I saw this tiny Filipino woman literally compressed between the driver seat and her dangerously encroaching steering wheel like a grilled cheese sandwich. The steering wheel appeared to have the circumference of a hoola hoop in her tiny grasp and she was so tightly packed in the car she looked like a midget in the cockpit of a fighter jet. If that poor woman so much as bumped another car while parking, causing the air bag to deploy, she would undeniably be decapitated. I looked on with a combination of horror, amusement, and surprise, as she drove away, her face literally centimeters from the horn, steering the mammoth wheel as if the captain of an old Spanish sailing ship. I guess sights like these should never really surprise me anymore, it's just that they sort of creep up on you when you're least expecting it. You know, one moment you're riding the subway, momentarily scanning the random crowd of faces, and the next moment a guy's clipping his toe nails . . . . . . . with his teeth. Or you're at the park with your dog and some dude is suspiciously looking around before he takes his underwear off and discards them into the bushes.

Months ago, I was coming home from work taking a back route through a quiet little neighborhood, when I saw a man and his boy exiting a large truck that had just parked in front of a house that I assumed was theirs. As if they had just pulled up to a giant aluminum trough in a public restroom, the little boy, around 3 or so, pulled his pants down and started taking a piss on the street, in front of the truck, his dad, a 3 bedroom 2 bathroom townhouse, me, and the rest of the fucking neighborhood! When the boy was finished, his dad (if you can call him that), came over and practically congratulated the kid before they disappeared into the house. Yes, the house with at least two bathrooms. I mean, they didn't look like they were in a hurry. Their faces carried no signs of desperation, necessity, or worry, akin to people who can't wait a second longer before their bladder explodes. As nonchalant as their emergence on the scene, the public display of urinary transgression was as equally of no concern or consequence. They acted completely normal, as if this were a daily occurrence, (which probably was) as if this were just another trip to the bathroom by a Father and Son at half time, during a Sunday football game. Right when you think you've seen it all.

I began to wonder about my childhood and all the questionable places I had peed. (once on my own leg to quell a jelly fish sting) Hell, I began to sift through all of the adult files as well, including all the accounts of inebriated, piss-poor decision making at sporting events, BBQ's, parties, nightclubs, and tail gaters; not even leaving out any testosterone fueled Dares from intoxicated peers. I'm a guy, after all, my plumbing allows me the freedom to take advantage of certain bladder relieving discretions if you will. If they can be avoided, of course we'd rather not pee in this alley, behind that car, or in the corner of this parking garage, or in the Gatorade bottle I'll have to stare at for the next few hours of our road trip. (So warm in your lap) But if it can't, well as they say, when Nature calls . . . . . you best be answering, because she doesn't like to leave long, detailed messages that take up a lot of space on your answering machine and everybody knows that's rude and inconsiderate and God help you if you haven't called her back in 3 days after you took her to dinner the last time and she invited you in for a night cap, which ended up with you in her bed, making awesome drunk marathon sex sweet love to her for two hours, but you felt a little weirded out because afterward you noticed she had My Little Ponies every where in her room, the walls adorned with stuffed animals and glitter posters, and you had to stare at the ceiling covered in glowing stars until she fell asleep so you could escape, but you're an asshole for not calling her after the amazing fulfillment of destiny your souls had just shared. Okay, well maybe I'm the only one who says that. Anyway, then I wondered if this is the path that people take who eventually grow up to do some R. Kelly type shit. Just sayin', makes you wonder.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

Haven't felt much like writing lately, so I've been dedicating that time to reading instead. Besides, there are a few books I need to knock out before I'm ready to take on that new Twilight series. I just hope it's as good as I've heard.

On a similar note, I have mixed emotions about reading books before watching the movie, or vice versa. Movies will inevitably leave out chunks of important storyline or will simply fail to live up to the world painted by the imagination. And if you see the movie first, you already know what's going to happen while you read, making intricate endings hollow or anticlimactic. Movie or Book? I'm generally more inclined to read the book first, primarily because after I've seen the movie, there's no way in hell I'm going to be motivated enough to read the book. Especially, if there is more than one. Perfect example, Lord of the Rings. Sure, I had read the Hobbit as a kid, but after watching the three Ring movies, I don't think the books could top it. Particularly since the movie is probably how I would have imagined it anyway. Although, I wouldn't have made Gandolf such a sissy in the movie.

Fightclub was an awesome movie. I thought that reading the book afterwards would be a good idea as well, but I couldn't have been more wrong. Great book, but it's exactly like the movie and no matter how extraordinary your imagination might be, there's no way it would have created a better performance than what the movie and its actors delivered. And for those of you who haven't experienced either, the narrator and Tyler Durden are the same person. Yeah, I'm in that kind of a mood.

I wish I would have read the Harry Potter books before watching the movies, none of which I liked too much by the way. Here is one instance that I think my imagination would have done a way better job of things. I can already hear the grumbles of disagreement, but I found them to be a little too juvenile for my tastes. Not to mention, anyone standing in line dressed up in anything other than normal clothes, waiting for stores to open so they can purchase the next book in the series, isn't typically an indication of anything I want to be a part of. I'm not one to follow the masses anyway. Notably those fanatically adorned with capes and wielding magic wands. Don't get me wrong though, I'd bang a hot sorceress in a heartbeat. I'm just sayin'.

The Twilight movie might be good, but it has just as much potential, if not more, to suck. It's difficult to make movies with the element of flying in them. You either have to stick entirely with the thought of fantasy, or make it seem realistic enough to correspond with a story that you want people to believe can be real. In either case, the actual physics of flying has to closely mimic the laws that govern flight in our world, otherwise viewers will automatically see the flaws and lose interest. Once you have attained seamlessness in physical action, then you have to look at the acting. There are going to be a slew of teenage actors, and if one of them isn't pulling his or her own weight, then that performance can discredit the entire movie. Happens all the time. Difficult balance I know, but whenever movies depend too much on computer graphics, things generally take a turn for the worse, because in those instances, little attention, if any, is given to actual acting.

Anyway, I could continue this rhetoric for days properly schooling you on movies, but like I said earlier . . . . . . . I'd rather be reading. That is, until I go see Quantum of Solace tonight. And who knows, I just might have to stand in line for a while too, but I'll be sure to leave the tux at home. Of course, only after I crush that shaken martini.

Friday, October 31, 2008

Halloween

Happy Halloween!



I hate it when this happens. . . . .

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Pleasantville

I watch way too much TV. As a matter of fact, I watch so much TV that my Tivo asks me for recommendations. I think I may have to see a therapist, and by therapist, I mean the ones that hand out antidepressants for Halloween.

My TV turns itself on and off at specified times, records programs 24/7, and I'm working on getting it to make me a sandwich. Not only do I watch too many TV shows, but I can't seem to pry myself away from movies that I've seen a million times either. As many of you know I'm an avid movie watcher, and my collection, that continues to grow like an ass rash, could probably compete with your local Blockbuster. However, when you watch as much TV as I do, so many of the aforementioned movies can still be found in their original packaging collecting dust. I probably loan them out more than I actually watch them, because one of my ultimate pet peeves is talking to people who haven't seen classics. How can you possibly have an appreciation for today's movies if you haven't seen what those actors and directors have done in other works? Get with it, geesh.

But I digress, I was talking about my TV addiction. As with other addictions there usually comes a point at which the afflicted come to realize the path they are on. Drunks call this "a moment of clarity". (There's your movie reference) Well, my epiphany came to me yesterday afternoon while deciding what recorded show I should watch.

There are a plethora of programs I get sucked into, some I'll admit to and others I'll be taking to my grave (Gossip Girl, XoXo). There are some I already know will be shite, but I watch them out of sheer curiosity anyway. One such show that comes to mind is the Dallas Cheerleader tryouts. Yeah, I said it. The reason I tune into this show from time to time, is because of how serious the organization treats the auditions. You would think these bitches were trying out for the FBI. It's priceless. Along the same lines as this media masterpiece, is the Ultimate Coyote Ugly Search. There's just something about a girl in a pair of boots pouring a stiff drink that tugs at my heart strings.

Okay, and now, for the moment you've all been waiting for, the unveiling of Brown's TV lineup. Here they are in order of best entertainment value:

1. Grey's Anatomy - Awesome show, very well written. There's a perfect blend of medical mayhem, drama, and comedy. Some of the characters can be a little whiny, (I wish they would have just drowned Meredith Grey for good) but all in all, it's a well rounded nail biter. You know, there is a reason it has won both an Emmy and a Golden Globe award. I just wish they'd bring back the fiery, red headed Dr. Addison Montgomery. [sigh] Her new show, Private Practice, isn't nearly as good.

2. Fringe - Hot new show by none other than J.J. Abrams, creator of Lost. I'm really into the Sci Fi thing, but I like my science fiction to hinge on the possible. This show does exactly that. I can never wait to see the next episode.

3. Samantha Who - Holy shit! Now this Emmy winning show is hysterically funny. I know, I know, I was a little skeptical at first when my sister made me watch an episode, but let me tell you, that's all it took. Christina Applegate is knee slapper funny in this show about a total bitch who is hit by a car, gets amnesia, and becomes super nice, but still has to deal with the issues created by her former mischievous self. You don't see half of these jokes coming, which in my opinion, make this show refreshingly comical. The chemistry and banter between all the supporting characters is seamless, witty, and hilarious.

4. House - This medical drama is a little edgier, but once you get past the impossibility of how Dr. House treats his staff, (like sending them to raid a patient's apartment) it ranks right up there with the best of them. It's actually ranked the third most watched program on television. If you haven't seen at least one episode, you must be trying not to.

5. Life on Mars - Another awesome new show, with an original look, about a cop who ends up in 1973 after an accident in which he slipped into a coma. He has to deal with being a detective in a time where most of the rules haven't been made yet, catching criminals, and simultaneously searching for clues to help solve his girlfriend's murder in 2008. This show is actually a remake of one that aired two years ago in Britain.

6. Heroes - Another Science fiction show that is sort of a spin off of X-men. Basically a bunch of mutants with special powers due to genetic anomalies, discovering the extent of their abilities while trying to evade people that want them dead. I really loved the first season much more than the second, but I'm staying tuned to see what happens. I sense that they are convoluting the plot by adding too much too soon. I mean, I don't want to get dragged along to the point where I lose interest, as with Lost, but I still want to be intrigued. I hope they don't screw it up. Because really, who wouldn't want to be able to read thoughts, or hurl fire balls. Sign me up Dr. Saresh.

7. CSI, Las Vegas - Crowned the most watched program in 2002, that CBS was encouraged to create two spin offs which aren't nearly as good as the original. I think after 8 seasons, this show has reached "classic" status. Unfortunately, William Peterson (Gil Grissom) has left the show, and although I really like Lawrence Fishbourne, the Sherlock-like Grissom was what kept you watching. I haven't seen any new episodes to decide whether or not I'll stay with this one.

8. Gossip Girl - I know I'm going to take a lot of flak for this one, so I'll just prepare for the impact of mortar rounds now, but this show is intriguingly good. I'm not filthy rich, which is a prerequisite for the lives of this show's characters, but following the lives of a bunch of vengeful and insidious rich kids is kind of fun. I actually hate my sister for even getting me into this crap.

9. Boston Legal - Great show. James Spader, William Shattner, and Candice Bergen (Murphy Brown). Implausible court cases taken on by a diversely quirky Boston law firm. Funny Shit. Enough Said.

10. Survivor/Big Brother - I try to stay away from these damn quasi-reality shows, because once you watch one episode, you have to watch them all. These things will suck the life right out of you. That's right, you'll want to know who's in alliance with who, who's getting voted off, or who will win Head of House Hold. It's all very maddening. I highly recommend avoiding either of these at all costs.

Now that I've given you the main lineup, I have my two favorite shows left, plus a few honorable mentions, that I just don't have time to watch. (Give me a break people, I still need time for Football and Basketball.) My 2nd favorite show, also an Emmy award winner that can only be found on HBO, is Entourage. And only those blessed with Showtime can watch Californication. These two are meant for adult audiences only and contain nudity, sexual content, and foul language. TV heaven! I continuously hear high praises about Rome and Weeds, both of which, along with the first two I mentioned, can be rented from Block Buster. Medium, Pushing Daisies, and Eli Stone, and of course Law & Order, are all honorable mentions.

Well, I think that covers the entire gamut of television programming. What shows do you like to watch?

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Chocolat

Now that October is coming to an end, the world's efforts on eradicating breast cancer will lose steam, and all the chatter about boobies will eventually turn to soft, inaudible whispers. Women's breasts will again be a thing of the past. Your very own breasts could become mere relics to which no one will gander, ornaments devoid of purpose. Once powerfully mesmerizing cleavage to become nothing more than a mere cleft, an anatomical junction of flesh. A seam.

In these times of uncertainty and economic despair, we cannot allow boobies to become faint memories. Exotic Dancers, school teachers, and stay at home moms will all feel the affects of a world where the magic and wonder of boobies becomes folklore. We must not let this travesty occur. We must fight! We must, we must, we must eat cookies! That's right, and eat them I will. Many of you know that the only thing in the universe that rivals my undying love for breasts saving breasts, is chocolate. So, I'm sure you can imagine my surprise when I discovered today that Pepperidge Farm has joined the cause to find a cure! Apparently, their founder's life was touched by breast cancer and it is in her honor that they have forged a partnership with Susan G. Komen for the cure. How elated I was to see one of my favorite cookies beautifully adorned by pink packaging. How could this have gone unnoticed for so long? Why didn't anybody tell me? All the participating cookies are being sold at Target and Wal-mart. So, what are you waiting for? Go forth and . . . . . . . eat cookies!

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Zodiac

Well, since nobody could figure out the movie references from my last post, I suppose I'll have to tell you now. Not that anyone was hounding me to spill it or anything, I just figured in the midst of a an economic meltdown that people should have their movie quotes in order. Better yet, because I like to drag things out for my own twisted amusement, I will offer a couple of obnoxiously obvious clues, to assist you in providing the answers. Commencing obnoxiously obvious clue description now:

The first movie reference (rounded to the nearest decimal point) had been taken from a much larger monologue by a pet lover standing in an empty swimming pool, investigating the kidnapping of a bottle nose dolphin, or Tursiops Truncatus. Gee, I wonder who that could be.

The second, (It is my purpose to know) was said by a man who is known simply as the Key Maker. His purpose, as his name fittingly describes, is to make keys. He has keys for everything, Ducati motorcycles, Doors leading to the source, etc. Unlike some of his friends, he did not possess the ability to dodge bullets. But then again, some of his friends didn't have to.

Please tell me you know these. Pretty Please?

Bonus: I'm not questioning your powers of observation, I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Surf's Up

I was perusing some on-line articles the other day, and I came across this gem about Car Surfing, which of course I had no choice but to comment on. I'm pretty sure I was being called upon to do so by a higher power, so I apologize in advance. Car Surfing is when a passenger of a car, or even the driver in some cases, performs stunts on the outside of the moving vehicle as if they were surfing it. The article describes that the CDC reviewed newspaper articles about Car Surfing that had been published over the last 18 years, (apparently they have that kind of time) and they found 99 articles on this riveting subject. I'm not a math whiz by any means, but by my calculations that's roughly 5.5 car surfing incidents a year, or 1 every 66.4 days. (rounded to the nearest decimal point) Of all of the reported stupidity, about 58 of those incidents ended in fatalities. In 75% of those cases, death was caused by blow to the head, from which we could also conclude that just about every other article included information about how some kid's medulla oblongata had to be scraped off of a stop sign.

The average age of the victims was 17.6 yrs old and 70% of them were also male. Surprise! If numbers hurt your head as much as they do mine, then we can further deduce that these kids were fucking stupid. What the CDC failed to investigate however, was the statistics regarding the race of these morons, the average income of the household from which they came, or perhaps the most imperative stat of all, where their fucking parents were during the conception of these brilliant ideas.

Now, I don't want to sound racist, but I don't think I would be going out on a limb if I said that the majority of these kids were probably white. And the only reason I'd say that, of course, is because the black kids were probably selling drugs and the Hispanics were working a Taco Bell drive through. I'm totally kidding, I'm pretty sure not all of them were allowed to work drive through right away. Again, I jest. The reason I know the majority of these kids were white, is because these injuries were incurred by engaging in an activity that has the word surfing in it.

It is a well known fact that 90% of African Americans don't like natural bodies of water. Of the 10% that do, 98% would rather eat fire than swim in the ocean. Conclusion, brothas don't like the ocean and wouldn't be caught dead surfing. In comparison, brown people LOVE the ocean. (I know this because it is my purpose to know) I know this because I am brown. Almost drowning in the ocean is kind of like a right of passage. That being said, most Hispanics are not huge fans of surfing, because we'd much rather swim, or play soccer on the beach. Obviously. Therefore, I can hypothesize with almost 100% certainty, that the kids participating in Car Surfing were unquestionably white. I'm not really sure what I intended to suggest by illustrating that they were Caucasian, besides that if you have white kids you should probably buy them a soccer ball . . . . . . or a helmet. You know, just in case.



note: Chinese and Indian children were excluded from these studies because they were too busy doing homework to be surveyed.

p.s.
I will be mildly impressed if you can identify both movie references. Hint: they're in parenthesis.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

The Great Debaters

I'm sure most of you watched the debate, or at least those of you who aren't under the assumption that the presidency has already been decided because of skin color. But for those of you who did, I just wanted to point out some occurrences and observations that I found in each candidates approach.

During the debate, I noticed that, even after the moderator had encouraged the nominees to share thoughts and statements that we haven't already heard, Senator McCain still had difficulty doing so. Quite frankly, he sounded like a broken record most of the time which was disappointingly similar to what he's been trying to force feed the nation at his last few speeches. A good portion of his retorts were not only identical to what he'd thrown out in the last debate, but were also repeated even when the topic of conversation didn't warrant them. It almost seemed as though when he was asked to respond to a particular theme, that he would use the majority of his time saying something negative about Senator Obama, than actually pointing out major highlights of his own policy. Even after the topic of negativity in both campaigns had been addressed, and Obama emphasized the importance of using the time to more wisely discuss action, Senator McCain still couldn't refrain from keeping a negative standpoint.

I've also discerned, that after every criticism McCain had, Obama wouldn't give merit to his adversary's instigating remarks by firing back, but instead would not only quell accusations with factual accounts and intent, but would also refocus our attention on the topic at hand by outlining the differences in their policies and pointing out the reasons to implement each endeavor. I really enjoyed how Obama not only used attacks as opportunities to explain specific initiatives within his policy, but also how he eloquently would show how each politician's strategy was either similar or different in contrast. I also found it interesting that McCain not once, but three times made a comment about Obama being eloquent, as if that were a bad thing. Look, if you find someone who is intelligent, articulate, has the ability to answer multiple questions, and can explain intricate concepts of government in a clear fashion to be intimidating, then maybe you need to reconsider what it is your doing there. Let's be honest, being eloquent shouldn't be a reason not to vote for someone, but I think you should be weary of someone who thinks so. Ultimately, I think it will be refreshing to have someone in office that can represent our country without looking like a dribbling fool to its citizens and the rest of the world. Someone who can speak intelligently, take decisive action when needed, and wisely consider the things that warrant more thorough attention. Forgive me if I have a standard for who should be our leader. I'm extremely sorry if that person can put a sentence together. I apologize if they don't engage in childish antics. My sincerest regrets if they just happen to be engaging, focused, or God forbid . . . . . . . . . eloquent.

Another observation I had, that kind of goes back to McCain's approach to make aspersions and negative remarks is when the moderator asked what each senator thought about the other's running mate. When Obama answered the question he had nothing negative to say about Palin, (which could have easily been done on multiple levels), but instead spoke of how she would make a fine president. He even went a little overboard so far as to say that she was competent and highly intelligent. When answering the same question, McCain followed his singular compliment of Biden with a rhetoric of his supposed inadequacies and failed insights. How apropo senator, but certainly not unexpected. I think that Obama summed it up perfectly when he commented on how McCain's ads had more to say about McCain's character than who they aimed to slander.

My Best Friends Wedding

So, I've been recuperating for the past few days from a gluttonous 4 day eating and drinking binge with a bunch of feisty Cubans and even feistier Brits (they literally can drink like fishes). One of my closest buddies, La Cubana Gringa, got married over the weekend and I had the distinct pleasure of being the MC for the reception. I'm not entirely sure what she was thinking when she offered to give me free reign of a microphone after I would have undoubtedly been drinking, but luckily we were behind schedule throughout the night which didn't allow for too much extra commentary. Although I wasn't allotted any extra time to tell jokes, (I had prepared a few good ones) it was still smashing and I was deeply honored to have had the opportunity to be a part of the festivities.

I won't go into too much detail, (I proudly still remember them all) but the weekend's events started with the rehearsal dinner on Friday night, quickly followed by salsa lessons and dancing. The wedding and reception on Saturday, with pub hopping ensuing late into the night. An enormous BBQ on Sunday, and finally a wine tour through Sonoma Valley on Monday. Don't ask me how, but we managed to visit bars, watch movies, and even play games in between all the other events that had been expertly planned.

The two recurring themes throughout my entire visit, besides the wedding of course, were drinking and eating. Everywhere I went I had a beer in my hand and I ate more food than I really care to think about. Collectively, I've drank and eaten enough over the past 4 days to sustain a few Cambodian villages for a month. Although I usually do eat large quantities of food, I'm more of a social drinker and generally not accustomed to ravenous stints of alcoholic overindulgence (okay, okay, well at least not anymore). So, imbibing in such excess over any prolonged stretch usually requires a period of recovery. Needless to say, I had a difficult time at the gym this morning.

All in all, I had the most amazing time revisiting with old friends and making new ones. My British accent is not only spot on now, but I'll have a place to stay if I ever get the urge to put it to the test. The ceremony was so beautiful and unforgettably perfect that all subsequent weddings I attend will have a lot to live up to.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Varsity Blues

Hazing, Initiation, Busting Balls, or Popping Cherries . . . . Whatever you want to call it, apparently it even occurs in gourmet kitchens. Enjoy. . . .



Cheers!

Monday, October 6, 2008

Die Hard

As you all know, my favorite month of year is finally here. An entire month dedicated to one of God's greatest masterpieces. A month greater than the ones that celebrate the taking discovery of America, its independence, or the heritage of its citizens. An entire month in which I can shout from the rooftops, professing my undying love for breasts and not be thought mad. Okay, well maybe it's too late for that.

Anyway, instead of ranting about my reverence for boobs, or dazzling you with tales of my mammiferous adventures, I will instead tell you about a warrior that I met over the weekend. On Saturday, I worked on the best client I've ever had, hands down. Her skin was not smooth, youthful, or taught. Her muscles were not perfectly sculptured and toned from countless spinning classes or pilates. Her head was not adorned with long locks of flowing, vibrant hair. As a matter of fact, she was old and arthritic. Her skin hung loosely over her emaciated muscles and brittle frame. Her hair was thin and scarce, but her soul, her soul was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Her smile was more glorious than a thousand sunsets, and her eyes sparkled like cascading waterfalls of diamonds. She may have stood no taller than 5 feet, but her heart was bigger than a mountain's.

This elderly client who slowly rose to greet me, smiled warmly as she shook my hand. Immediately I could sense her energy and calming presence. Her eyes glimmered like the ones from a person that has seen what so many seek. I led her to my room as she quietly shuffled behind me, fighting to walk as gracefully as her tired joints would allow. I was thankful that I was assigned the first room, because I wondered how long it would have taken had we needed to trek the entire distance of a hallway spanning twenty of them. During the massage, I was told a stupendous story of survival. A tale of many battles. A war of epic proportions. Therein, I discovered truly what people can be made of. This woman of 83 years of age, had joint crippling arthritis, a knee replaced (twice), brain surgery to implant a shunt with a microprocessor designed to drain the fluid in her brain that would assist her body in keeping its balance, (a procedure found necessary only after having fallen down a flight of stairs) and she had a double mastectomy to overcome breast cancer. To top this all off ladies and gentlemen, (yes there's more) some how, scar tissue left over from the surgery had become malignant due to the radiation treatments and maliciously attacked her lungs, from which, the doctor's had to remove a generous portion. Needless to say, her voice was a little raspy and her breathing labored and shallow.

However, her difficulty in breathing could not suppress her humor or wit. Her aches could not bind her will nor could her pains stifle her hope. She spoke so highly of all who cared after her. She knew the names of all her doctors and praised their skill and eagerness to help. She spoke of all her surgeries as a war general speaks of victorious battles. She shared her stories. I listened as though being told the location of the Holy Grail. She talked of how she now volunteers at the very hospital that so many of us would have never wanted to revisit. I was amazed.

When most people would have given up, she walked a treadmill. When most people would have cursed God, she hired a personal trainer to visit 3 times a week. When most of us would have refused to lift a finger, she lifted weights, and exercised in her pool. Without a six pack or a spear. Without a Spartan army, she kicked cancer's ass. Okay, maybe she didn't exactly kick cancer's ass, but she defeated a worthy adversary. An adversary that fights to the death and rarely loses. She's still here. Take that Gerard Butler.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

An Inconvenient Truth

I don't claim to be a political expert on debate, but I have seen all the movies on this subject. And what I do expect from individuals who have agreed to debate, is to answer the moderators questions. None of this, "I want to talk about energy", bullshit. We've already heard what you wanted say about your energy plan, and unless you have anything to add, I would appreciate it if you would just stay on the topic at hand. Everyone knows you have wet dreams of long pipelines and enormous drills pounding the earth's surface until all it's natural resources have been depleted and our withering planet has been left vapid and incapable of sustaining life.

And please, for the love of Thomas Jefferson, stop smirking and smiling up there like you're Austin Powers and 'this sorta thing is your bag baby'. Every time you wink at the camera I throw up a little in my mouth. It's not endearing and quite frankly I think it's unprofessional. It's a tasteless tactic and by golly it makes you look stupid. (Well, so does thinking that just because you can throw a paper airplane into Russia's back yard that you're magically experienced in foreign policy) Those stupid elementary antics were not cute when Bush did them, and they are even less so when you do. This is a serious matter and just because you go around wielding words like "change", "maverick", and "oversights", that doesn't make you qualified for a position you clearly are unready for. Many Americans may not, but I see right through you. You were well coached prior to this debate, and you stayed within the parameters of your comfort zone. If you want to prove yourself, do your homework, take this shit seriously, and pretty please, with a fucking cherry on top, just answer the questions.

Another thing that really irritates me is at the end of the debate, is it necessary to have the entire family come up on stage and even more so for you to bounce and burp your baby for a few minutes of air time? You know, to make sure that everyone sees what a wonderful mother you are. Aawww look, the little one is toting the baby around, how cute is that? What's her name, Trinket? Cam Shaft? Spark Plug? No, I don't think so. This isn't show and tell, Mommy is at work. Keep those little ones at home or in the audience where they belong. We don't need you to continue flaunting them around like little shiny medallions of patriotism. All these behaviours only further confirm my suspicions that your selection was merely one of political strategy and that you're nothing more than a poster child for the campaign.



Ah, but what would I know.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Bank Job

I know, I know, you minions have waited long enough for the coveted Dumb ass of the week Award. It certainly has been a while since the award has been given out, and not for a lack of dumb asses I must say. Because let's be honest, this thing could practically have a two hour special on ABC and we still wouldn't have enough to go around. Between Congress, our cockamamie president, celebrities, Wall Street, and Clay Aiken (was that even necessary?), there are more than enough award recipients. Tempting as it might have been to hastily bestow this award on any one of the aforementioned nitwits, I think there is an organization that is even more deserving. Okay, so maybe not $700 billion dollar bailout kind of deserving, but equally so. . . . in principal.

And the award goes to, [overly dramatic digitally enhanced surround sound drum roll] the Federal Bureau of Investigation. That's right people, I'm calling out the Bureau. As this article explains, A Wells Fargo bank branch in California got robbed not once, but twice. In the same day. Three hours apart. And they were robbed by none other than the infamous "Chatty Bandit" and "Hard-Hat Bandit". The Chatty-bandit? Are you serious? This is the best nickname they can come up with for an outlaw that has robbed 9 banks at gunpoint without getting caught? Of all the distinguishable characteristics that are pertinent to the case, is this fugitive of the law properly summed up as chatty? I find it difficult to believe that with all the specific training they receive on profiling and studying the criminal mind, that chatty was deemed the most befitting description for this miscreant. And how the hell do they even know that? You would think that a bank robber that stood around for a long time making idle conversation with a bank teller would have been caught by now, no?

You! Fill this bag with money or I'll shoot you in the face! Yeah, so, I'm only really doing this because I'm considerably tired of these gas prices and I really wanted some excitement in my life. I just hope that my family understands when they see it on the news, because that would really be disheartening to not have them understand the amount of stress I'm under to make a better world. I would tell them at Aunt Jenny's BBQ next week, but at this rate, I may be entirely too busy to even show up. I mean really, 9 banks is a lot for only starting less than 6 months ago don't you think? I might have to hire a few assistants or even start a corporation. Does this mask make me look fat? So, how long have you worked here? Don't worry about what I said earlier about shooting you in the face, I really didn't mean that. I would totally like get you in the leg or something. Wow, what a beautiful necklace is that gold?

I'm sure that the FBI, in all their infinite investigative wisdom can conjure a more appropriate sobriquet for this bandit than chatty. Who the hell is in charge of making this shit up anyway? Johnson! Yes Captain. What do we have so far? Uh, well nothing so far sir, we're still interrogating all the witness. Anything concrete yet? Well, no sir, but we do have one teller that is exceptionally chatty, she just keeps ranting about . . . . . Johnson that's it. That's brilliant! The chatty-bandit! Excellent work Johnson, carry on.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Boiler Room

Top Ten clues that I'm going to have a difficult client:


1) They are checking e-mails or talking on their cell phone in the "Relaxation Room".
Seriously?


2) They are built like a Mac truck . . . . .
"Hey, anybody want my three o'clock? I think I'm getting a cramp!"

3) They have diarrhea of the mouth from the second I greet them. . . . .
Do NOT ear rape me. I don't get paid enough.


4) The first words the client says are, "My psychiatrist recommended. . . . ."
So, I guess getting rubbed with hot oil by a sexy man in a dark room whilst naked is suppose to help with that huh?

5) When they have more hair than Beyonce. . . . .
Don't act like you didn't know your crow's nest would get all up in my way. You better tie that shit up girl.


6) When they have more body hair than a Silver Back Gorilla. . . . .
For Pete's sake, get that shit waxed, or lasered. Damn ladies.


7) When they've self diagnosed injuries and refuse to see a doctor. . . . .
I hurt my lower back a few months ago and I think I have a bulging disc, or a herniated disc, or a pinched nerve. Uhuh, and what website told you this?


8) When they want me to fix them the same day they injured themselves. . . . .
"Yeah, I just fell off a ladder a few hours ago and can barely walk, think you can dig in there?" No dumbass, a massage will probably only make it worse, besides why don't you use this money for your co-pay?. . . . retard.


9) When they say, "Do I need to take my bra off?". . . . .
Well, no of course not. As a matter of fact why don't you just leave the whole fucking robe on. I'm sure it will feel crazy awesome.


10) When a client wants me to focus extra attention on more than just a few areas. . . . .
"Make sure you get my right shoulder, there are tons of knots in there. My left knee's been acting up and I sprained my left ankle a few weeks ago. The right side of my neck is a little messed up, I think I slept on it wrong. Oh, could you dig into my hamstrings, they're really tight. You know, my sciatica has really been acting up too. Don't touch my hair please I just got it done, but definitely save some time for my face. Oh my God, I almost forgot, I looooove getting my feet rubbed. By the way, I'm so sorry but I forgot to shave my legs. And one last thing, I've been playing a lot of tennis lately and my elbow's been giving me some problems. I think I have tennis elbow, but don't worry about that so much, I'd much prefer you get my lower back." Um, you do realize that this is a 50 minute massage right?

Thursday, September 25, 2008

Burn After Reading

I think I have a problem. I just read a book in three days. TH-REEEEEE days! Once I start I just can't stop. I want to know what happens. No. I need to know what happens! I just went to a little book store on the edge of town, as if it were a crack house, to stock up for the coming weeks. And when I want to encourage children to read I tell them it's just like crack. "You'll love it!" I say. "Well, not the crack, I mean you'll love that too, but it's not good for you. So, uh, stick to the books, because reading is fun. Well, probably not as fun as crack, technically, but much, much safer. And although stealing money from mommy's purse might seem like a good idea, getting her to just buy you some books would be a lot easier. You'll probably get more books than you would crack for the same amount of money anyway, if you bargain your little ass off. And when you run out of money, you can always check books out from the library, where unfortunately, you can't do that with crack. Although, I would imagine that you could probably get through a lot more library books if you were on crack, but that's just speculatory." Here is a short recap of the books I've recently left in the wake of my insatiable crack-reading tornado:

I just finished Water for Elephants. Great historical novel, quick read obviously, but cleverly written. It's about a young veterinary student from Cornell University that runs off to join the circus after tragedy strikes his life during the Great Depression. It's mainly told as a series of memories from the main character who is presently a 90 yr old, or a 93 yr old resident at a nursing home.

Before that, Three cups of Tea. The unbelievable recount of a devout climber who attempts to summit the 2nd tallest peak in the world, K2, which is found in the Himalayas. During the descent of this particular endeavor, he is in awe at the hospitality a local tribe shows him. After discovering that the children learn by using sticks to draw in the sand and are devoid of school supplies, much less an actual school, he's inspired to build one for them. For those unfamiliar with that part of the world, this mountain is located in northern Pakistan. Which by the way, borders Afghanistan and Iran. So, sufficed to say, building a school there comes with particular "challenges" for an American. Especially, during the events of 9/11. Anyway, I highly recommend it.

Before that I crushed Eat, Pray, Love, one of the more enjoyable reads I've had in a long, long time. Brilliantly written, fraught with humor, and extraordinary metaphoric references, a writer chronicles her journey of self discovery after an extremely excruciating divorce. She travels to Italy, India, and Bali, meeting people, learning languages, and finding that one person we all wish to connect with. Anyway, Fantastic book. Read it already!

Prior to that, I read The Life of Pi, which at first is difficult to get through, but the pay off is deliciously worth it. It's about an Indian boy who's parents own a zoo and decide to move to Canada. He Ends up shipwrecked at sea, the lone human survivor, along with a few animal characters; one being a ferocious Bengal tiger. Very intriguing story that makes you want to read it again, just for good measure.

The Power of Now, a magnificent story of enlightenment and Marley and Me, a dog lover must, were also superb books. I would tell you what else I've been reading, but I think you should mind your own business. Besides, you have some catching up to do . . . .

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Far and Away

So, my Dad calls me this morning about wanting to share some sort of poem. Like an eager child exacting his parent's attention before showing them how he can jump off the diving board, he says, "Brown, listen to this:"

I used to rule the world,
Seas would rise when I gave the word.
Now in the morning I sleep alone,
sweep the streets that I used to own.

Apparently, after the disastrous week in the stock market and the fall of a few Wall Street behemoths, he had some epiphanous moment of poetic justice, and couldn't wait to tell me more. As if climbing back out of the pool with excitement and again approaching the diving board with unwavering focus, he continued on . . . . .

I used to roll the dice,
see the fear in my enemy's eyes.
Listen as the crowd would sing,
"Now the old king is dead! Long live the King!"

Now, being that I am a poet and have many memorized, I immediately started scanning through the sheaf of files in my mind's library, much the way a reporter would flip through streaming sheets of old articles stored on micro-fiche. As he continued talking, I easily began eliminating poets. Cummings, Dickinson, Frost, Blake, Browning . . . . .definitely not Chaucer. . . . .

One minute I held the key,
the next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand,
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand.

Dammit, I know this, I kept thinking to myself. It sounds so familiar. Hughes, Poe, Wilde . . . . could definitely be Whitman . . . . or even Yeats. Yeah, I'm definitely leaning towards Yeats, but the title eludes me. . . . . .

I hear Jerusalem's bells a ringing,
Roman Calvary choirs are singing.
Be my mirror, my sword, my shield,
My missionaries in a foreign field.

Wait a second . . . . . is this even a . . . . "Brown, have you ever heard of Viva La Vida?" he interjects. "Uh, no" . . . came my defeated reply. "It's a song from these people named Cold Play", he says. "They're very good". "Ah, of course it is", I say, the realization striking me like an anvil being dropped from an overhead window. Being almost 3,000 miles away, he doesn't have the advantage of hearing them on the radio like we do, so on some things he can be a few weeks behind. He finishes his lyrical rhetoric illuminating the connection with the government's current events and topping things off with an insightful thought of irony, about how both McCain and Bush were initially against government regulations that my have circumvented these very financial travesties.

Having once been a teacher, my Dad is exceptionally computer savvy for a scholar his age. He continues telling me how he downloaded the song and even watched the video on You Tube. I never thought in a million years, that I would ever be discussing You Tube with my Father. Which actually, is kind of cool when you think about it. Although he comes from a very different generation, (you know, the one that had to walk miles in the snow to get to school) he's remarkably perceptive when it comes to today's generational paradigm. I love having these conversation with him now that he's retired and has the time. As long as he doesn't call me later to share Lil Wayne's, "I got Money", or tell me that he pimped his ride, I couldn't be happier.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

The Patriot

Although I should be bringing this up next month, since technically October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, I just got so excited thinking about breasts that I couldn't wait to talk about those lovely mammary mounds of joy. Surely at this point I don’t have to expend a single breathe expressing my wholehearted devotion to the preservation of breasts and my indefatigable vow to support the research for a breast cancer cure, even if that means the arduous task of single handedly inspecting each one of them myself. That’s my level of commitment. That's how I roll.

Until my license as High Boob Chancellor has completed its final phase of processing, which will allow me unquestioned and unfettered access to thoroughly inspect any breast anywhere, I will intermittently have to join the common man in the trenches and take a less hands-on approach to do my part. I am taking this opportunity to challenge all of you to take up arms (and legs) and join me in the boldest walk for a cure in mammary history. You can do so by visiting The 3 day website to find out when the 3 day walk for a cure will be in your chest of the woods. Basically, it will be a 3 day 60 mile walk dedicated to finding a cure and raising awareness for breast cancer. You will have refreshments, hot meals, and even entertainment provided for you along the way. It will be held throughout all the major cities in the U.S., and I really can't find a better reason to walk anywhere. So, visit the site, mark your calenders, and prepare to lace 'em up (shoes and bras) and get to steppin'.

Don't forget you can always continue to show support by buying pink-products in stores, where portions of the proceeds go to Cancer Research. Yoplait Yogurts, which are delicioso, donate a dollar per lid when you send them in. Philadelphia cream cheese is on board, and toothbrushes, contact solution, and air fresheners can all be found in pink. My contact case is pink, thanks to one of my sisters, a pink ribbon hangs from my car's rear view mirror, and my favorite cutting board, (thanks Regina!) is also, you guessed it, as pink as a freshly picked areola. From pens and magnets, to shirts that profess your healthy adoration for bosoms of all shapes and sizes, can be found just about anywhere. And although we can't all be respected booby chancellors, at least we can all be ambassadors for breasts. Save the boobies!

Monday, September 15, 2008

Pay it Forward

So, I recently read this post from a blogger, (True Tales of a Hair wrecker) that I started following, and was reminded about another pet peeve that really grinds my gears. I absolutely detest people who are impolite and have no sense of common courtesy. I hate them almost as much as I hate one eyed midgets and those stupid cycling helpmets that look like a giant sperm. Almost.

That's right people, learn some freakn' manners. Open the door, get out of the aisle, let someone in your lane, stop for a pedestrian, give up your seat, hold the elevator, and for the love of God, don't you dare stop abruptly when walking in the mall to look at some random shit. I'm right behind you and I may just not feel like putting the breaks on.

I can't stand when you are walking, whether you are carrying something or not, (more so when you are) and people are conversing in the middle of an aisle, completely and disrespectfully oblivious to on comers, and fail to politely move out of the way to allow unfettered passage. I don't think I can properly convey how much this makes my blood boil. What's even worse is when you say excuse me, and they shoot you a look of complete inconvenience, as if you were asking them to help you dig a trench after they've already given you a kidney. Yeah, go ahead and roll your eyes at me asshole, I'll be sure to do the same when you beg me to remove the duct tape from your mouth before I shove you into the trunk of my car.

My absolute favorite is when, after you've been given the "I can't believe you're going to actually make me move" look, they step only an inch or two forward allowing barely enough space for a cardboard cut out of you to get by. I always make it a point to lead in with my shoulder like a running back trying to gain extra yards for a first down, hopefully knocking them off balance enough to let them know how reprehensible I think they are. If I'm exceptionally irritated, I cough and sneeze like I have the AVIAN flu and watch those inconsiderate miscreants disperse like roaches when the lights come on. They're lucky I'm not blessed with my brother-in-law's talent to fart obnoxiously on command. So, Lindsey, I salute you and all mothers who make it your personal endeavor to properly educate and instill proper courtesy and gallantry in your young men. It will serve them, and the rest of humanity well. Even if only to provide one more dry toilet seat in the restroom.

p.s.

Just as a side note, whenever I do open a door for a female, I think it's rather impolite for them to put their hand on the door as if I were going to let it go. Do people actually do this, open the door for someone to only let it slam on them as they pass through? What would be the point of me opening the door if you are going to practically do it yourself? Don't act like you're too good to accept this small chivalrous gesture from a man either, I'm not doing it because I don't think you're fully capable of doing so. I do it because it's the right thing to do. . . . .and because I need a reason to see your ass as you go by. I'm just saying, staring is rude.

Friday, September 12, 2008

Rain Man

In celebration of my infinite wellspring of useless knowledge, I found it appropriate to share a little gadget with you that would simultaneously symbolize my savant-like abilities and help to spread the wisdom of impractical trivia. This bastion of useless information, although not as brilliant as the cuss-o-meter, is equally as adored and hopefully will serve to educate you, or at the very least provide a modicum of inconsequential entertainment. (notice how I'm always looking out for you)

Toodles . . .

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Jerry Maguire

Probably one of the Grand Daddy of all my pet peeves is people who do not tip 18 to 20%. Plain and simple. If you can't afford to tip your therapist even a measly 15%, then you shouldn't be getting a massage to begin with. What's even worse, is when people tip like that when someone else is paying for their service. If you come to get a massage with a Gift Certificate and don't have the decency to tip appropriately, your skin should be shaved off with a cheese grater and you should be dropped into a pit of flesh-eating ants after you've been dipped in molasses. Look, I'll be the first to admit that we charge way more than is humanly necessary, but not only are you getting high quality work, you are also in the most luxurious of surroundings and have access to all the amenities of our entire facility (which includes a state of the art fitness center).

Although, my spa caters to the wealthier elite class, this concept is easily applicable to your every day spa or anyone else who depends on tips as a source of income. Unless your therapist touched you inappropriately, (perhaps a little tea-bagging incident) managed not to listen to any of your needs, or literally didn't know what he/she was doing, then I can understand tipping below the bench mark. However, when you visit one of the country's leading luxury spas and pay a few hundred dollars for a treatment, and you get this tall drink of sexy brownness, and I give you the most bad-ass massage you've ever had; you better be leaving me 20% or I'll wish evil upon your children and steal your favorite t-shirt.

There is nothing more insulting than to hear you rant and rave about how I was the best you've ever had, how exquisitely wonderful I am, and how you wish you could afford for me to work on you everyday . . . . and then for you to leave me 25 bucks on a $230 treatment. Um, excuse me mam, but you seem to be mistaken. Perhaps the lights were a little too dim for you to see correctly, or maybe you were still a little lightheaded by the bomb-ass massage you just received, but I think you meant to make that two, a four. Seriously. My favorite is the pompous asshole who nonchalantly shakes your hand on his way out while inconspicuously leaving a twenty dollar bill in your palm as if you had just parked his fucking car and he's doing you a favor. Hey there Guido, I just spent the better part of 80 minutes rubbing your hairy-ass and listening to you snore like you a were a troll with pneumonia. Mr. Jackson here, better have some friends joining him shortly.

It's actually quite an interesting phenomenon that continuously keeps us scratching our heads. The people who don't have much to say are generally the ones that exceed your tipping expectations. It's extremely difficult, in the short period of time in which we introduce ourselves and find out what you want out of the massage, to ascertain exactly what you're feeling, or what you may be going through. Maybe you just landed a 747 from an 18 hour flight from Germany while suffering from a bout of diarrhea, perhaps you just ran a marathon in flip flops and your feet hurt, you could have just lost your dog, or wasted the last few hours of your life watching the Republican National Convention. Unless you say something, we can't always tell. I'll have clients on occasion that flat out don't even seem like they're enjoying the massage. They answer your questions abruptly or ambiguously, making it difficult for you to gauge how things are going. Some are even a little rigid or fidgety at times. But when you go to pick up their receipt, you find an even 20% or higher as a result of your labor. Apparently they loved it, but either weren't quite the social butterfly or weren't in the mood to express it. Quite frankly I prefer clients who are responsive and complimentary to you during their treatment, but if I had to chose, I'll go with the cool hard cash over the compliments any day. I know I'm good, and although I absolutely love to hear you tell me so, Brown's gotta put food on his family. (if you know where that last part is from you'll get a special prize!)

I've discussed this issue before with other therapists, and usually we are all in agreement. But I have had the pleasure before of hearing the perspective of one therapist who thought that I should be happy that we even get tipped and that being able to give someone such a wonderful gift should be the only fulfillment I need (I choked her and dumped her body in a swamp) I am very appreciative of all the things that envelop the type of work I do, and I indeed reap great rewards from being able to facilitate the body's healing process, bring someone peace of mind, or even rid someone of pain entirely. I meet all kinds of fascinating people and I feel very blessed to share my gift with those who need it. And when I volunteer my work, believe you me, an appreciative smile or thankful nod, is all I need in return.

However, I'm not going to lie, massage therapy is my profession and I'm giving you two of my greatest nonrenewable resources: my time and my energy. When you book me, you are entering a business transaction and as a result, I expect to be paid accordingly. I'm not sure how it is with some body workers, but I take extreme pride in what I do, I pay attention to the smallest of details to ensure that you get the most for what you are paying for. With every one who lays on my table, I make it my personal endeavor to give you the best of what I have. I know for a fact that most massage therapists don't do this. It's too physically and spiritually demanding to give a 100% to all of your clients, but day in and day out, that's exactly what I do. That's how I roll. So, do us all a favor, the next time you get a massage . . . . show some damn respect . . . . then SHOW ME THE MONEY!

Friday, September 5, 2008

Cuss-o-Matic

Warning: The following entry contains a significant amount of foul language, and although not primarily intended to offend anyone, certainly harnesses the inherent capability of doing so. With that said, if you have delicate sensibilities, are underage, or suffer from a heart condition, then you definitely should not read this. As a matter of fact you came to the wrong place altogether. . .

As you may have noticed, there is a brand new, shiny Cuss-o-meter that decorates my little space in the blogosphere! I stumbled upon this lovely contraption a little while ago and instantly knew that we were destined to be together. Now, I know that using expletives in writing can usually indicate a lack of intelligence or literary imagination, but this device is was too fucking brilliant to pass up! In seconds, it can analyze thousands of pages and count how many times you used a bad word, instantly giving you a cuss-rating to warn your readers of how often a fuck, shit, or motherfucker appear in your writing. Completely fascinated by this new discovery, I was determined to find out how I ranked amongst my peers.

I began to wonder how discriminatory the Cuss-o-Meter might be, what criterion he might use to determine my cuss-rating, and ultimately how accurate it really is. I mean, if your reiterating something somebody else said, does that cuss word count? Or what if you were telling your readers about something you read? For instance, if I tell you that I had a wallet that read, "Bad Motherfucker" on it, would that count? Does goddammit count? Surely "goddammit, I lost my motherfucking wallet" would have to be considered. More over, words like "asshole" can easily be used to depict some body's demeanor, or refer to their actual rectum depending on connotation, and would my cuss-o-meter know the difference? I had to know the answers to these burning questions.
"Bitch, although originally meant to define a female dog, has become a swearing staple generally used to characterize a woman, (usually one of strong personality) "She's such a bitch", or even a group of women, "Look at these bitches". It can be applied to your current location, "You have anything to eat in this bitch?", or when trying to pursuade someone into action as in "C'mon, don't be a bitch". Ironically, it can possess positive implications when you want to illustrate how wonderful something might be, "This party is bitch'n", or to portray an unfortunate event, "Aint this a bitch". People will even use it to report an extraordinarily challenging task, "It was a bitch to get these jeans on", or "climbing those stairs was a bitch".
It's well known that "fuck" is the most versatile word in the English language. It can be a noun, verb, adjective, or even an adverb as in "absofuckinglutely". Regularly used as an exclamation, "Fuck, I stubbed my toe", or even more predominately to insinuate sex, "Let's fuck", "They're in there fucking", and "She's already fucked the whole office". Routinely used as a vociferous retort "Fuck you", to tell someone where you'd like for them to go "Fuck off", or what you'd like for them to do when they get there "Go fuck yourself". "Don't fuck me" and "Don't fuck me over", are customarily utilized when you are trying to convey that you are strictly against having your trust broken, (usually uttered before loaning someone money) and "Don't fuck around" when discouraging shenanigans. When at a loss of words to describe a situation, (like this post for instance) or to express disbelief, one could say "unfuckingbelievable" or "no fucking way".

Which leads me to another observation about how different levels of exclamation can be achieved by either adding other seemingly innocuous words in front of, or behind, these grammatical gems like "Holy shit" (I think indicating the highest level of shit). Shithead, Fuckface, and Fuckwad, are enigmatically used to either describe undesirables, or people we actually care about dearly. Your deepest adoration can also be projected by saying, "I fucking love you man". The most obscure of these phrases may very well be "Shit-eating grin" (for obvious reasons) and "Fucking-A". The latter, although a relic in most contemporary social circles, can still be heard, but is often followed by "man" or "dude" to express your disapproval with another person's behavior. "Clusterfuck" (a military favorite) is commonly used to indicate a situation that is hopelessly in chaos or disarray, where as "We are so fucked" and/or "Fuck me", is widely accepted as the last thing a person would say right before being obliterated by explosive materials.

Finally, combinations using three or more of these words can create a colorful tongue twisting language all it's own like, "Bitch ass motherfucking asshole" or "Punk ass motherfucker". Please keep in mind that using words like "suck", "lick", "eat", "hell", "balls", and "ass", are essential in creating the flow necessary to pull off the desired effect. Again, I warn against trying to use these combinations before you're ready, because you could sound like a fucking idiot in the presence of seasoned professionals. However, with enough diligent practice and an experienced mentor, you may one day join forces with the elite cussers of our time. Me? Well, I have other shit to worry about. . . . . Peace the fuck out.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Apocolypse Now

The world is coming to an end. El fin. Fino. La Fin. Daas enda. How do I know this you intriguingly ask? By the housing crisis? By increasing gas and food prices? Or by polar ice caps melting due to accelerated global warming caused by deforestation, increased gas emissions, and pollutants released into the atmosphere eventually causing the inevitable destruction of man-kind by the powerful laser-like rays of the sun and endless bouts of acid rain? Niet. The truth is, McCain is a wrinkly old man, people are cloning puppies, Clay Aiken had a child, and most important of all . . . Brett Favre was traded to the Jets!

Can you believe this? I certainly can't. Wanting Clay Aiken's offspring is like sewing your head to the back of your knee so you can get a better look at your ass. And isn't that bitch like 50 years old or something? Don't you risk giving birth to two-headed, one-eyed garden gnomes when your uterus is as old as the Constitution? I'm flabbergasted, dumbfounded, and literally speechless. Okay, well not literally, except for Paris Hilton pointing out the painfully obvious. Thanks, because we didn't know that McCain was so old he used to gangbang with the Hebrews. Just stick to flashing your cooter to the world honey, at least your good at that.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Out of Time

I suppose when it's your time to go, it's your time to go. I often wonder if there's somebody in heaven who's job is dedicated solely to monitoring an enormous room with billions of shelves full of clocks with every one's name on it, and when your clock indicates that your time is up, he picks up the receiver on the red phone with a one way line directly to the angel of death, (or he might even send an email) informing him of the people who need to be neutralized for the day.

I bring this up because a couple of months ago a man was virtually sawed in half by a great white shark about 150 yards off the coast of a popular beach in California, a tragedy that hasn't happened in 50 years. Apparently, the man was swimming with a group of athletes training for a triathlon, and he began lagging behind. A great white patrolling the waters for food was probably alerted to the presence of the swimmers splashing about on the surface and noticed the weak one in the group. Evolutionary behavior that has kept the shark alive for thousands of years, prompted the animal to investigate by taking a bite to check if this particular prey was edible. As with most great white attacks, the the warm blooded shark realized that it was a bony human and not a fat sea lion (which it prefers), so he let him go. Unfortunately, a 15 foot great white produces so much force by his bite and extremely sharp serrated teeth, that usually we bleed to death before we can be medically treated. Both this man's legs were fatally shredded and he died of blood loss well before his buddies could get him ashore. Although I think that this could have been prevented had he stayed with the group, this next story certainly proves that there's no denying when your card is pulled, even if you're safely on board.

I'm sure you guys heard about the lady who was killed in Florida by a 75 lb sting ray with a 5 ft wing span, while sunbathing in a boat yes? Well, if you didn't, I'll summarize the freakish accident for you. She was chillin' in her boat soaking up the sun, when a sting ray leaped in and bitch slapped her in the face impaled her in the neck with it's venomous barb, delivering her to an extremely bloody demise. They say that sting rays do not attack people, however I'm convinced that this particular creature was gunning precisely for her. This assassin of the sea surely had orders and there was nothing she could have done to prevent it. Case closed, welcome to heaven, the line on the left is for your linens during your stay and the line on the right is for your name tag and meal card. Trash is taken out on Tuesdays, recycle on Thursdays and your favorite TV shows are on every night.

Lightning strikes, broken elevators, derailed trains, rogue sting rays and any other totally random and outlandish method of death is only the creativity of the death dealer and nothing more than the result of an alarm clock going off. However, just for clarification, if you happen to be mauled by a bear while training it for a part in a movie, then you were definitely asking for it.

Friday, August 1, 2008

Footloose

Ah yes, ladies and Gentlemen, summer is undoubtedly here. The lovely time of year when people are on vacation visiting the beach, the monuments, museums, and amusement parks, putting countless unforgiving miles on their feet. Never paying them any mind until the end of the day when they finally turn in for the night and realize that they've been mercilessly pummeling their feet by not only carrying their kids around for weeks, but also the extra pounds that have pounced on them since last Christmas when they quit smoking.

Of course I don't expect everyone to be worthy of my touch to have perfect feet, but for the love of humanity, (and your therapist) if your feet look like you could swoop down on a lake and catch a trout, or if they resemble concrete in any way, then it's probably time they met a pumice stone . . . . . . or an electrical sander.

The past month has been extremely busy, but as chance would have it my schedule has been gratuitously peppered with extra helpings of feet that could use some TLC. The last two weeks in particular have seen their fair share of travesties, but two nights ago I had a client that, hands down, had the most repulsive feet I have ever seen. Her heels had cracks in them that looked exactly like the ones you'd find in moistureless volcanic rock. If that weren't bad enough, the cracks were equally as black. These mammoth crevices swallowed massage cream like the dry barren earth of a desert would soak up the rain. I was convinced that her rough alligator feet had never seen a sock, touched a drop of moisture, and certainly never had an encounter with lotion.

As I continued to lather her death dealing razorblades of calloused flesh with cream, I did all I could to keep from throwing up. No amount of medicated heel cream or Shea butter would ever soften these Komodo Dragon feet. All I could do was try not to cut myself and move on as if nothing had happened, but something had indeed happened my friends, [cue extremely sad violin music] my love for massage died a little that day. Little pieces of my heart had become calloused and hard as stone, eventually becoming brittle and crumbling away as if they had witnessed Medusa's fatal glance.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Life Lesson #219

I'm not exactly sure how one can possibly drop a gas pump nozzle on one's big toe, but I have found a way to do it. In flip flops.

Apparently, being late for work and having to pay today's exorbitant gas prices was not enough of a slap in the face this morning, that I had to attempt to sever a toe for good measure. It wasn't like I had extra virgin olive oil on my hands, or hair gel, or even lotion. Nope. Perfectly dry and capable ninja hands were employed for the job. However, for some reason, I thought it was a good idea to shove the nozzle with the spring loaded cover as far into the car's gas tank as possible to witness the amazing power of harnessed energy first hand. The nozzle propelled itself right out of the tank, through my fumbling and uncooperative hands, and right on to my exposed toe, sending a signal to my spinal cord informing me of just how badly I was going to regret this single moment of stupidity.

After hearing me scream and without missing a beat, the lady at the next pump said, "I hear ya buddy, just let it out". Apparently, she too feels my pain.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Alice in Wonderland

I worked on a client today who we shall name Mike, because quite frankly, his name is Mike and making up names for people is almost as disrespectful as calling their mother a whore. Almost. 

Mike has many tattoos. And when I say many, I mean that I have worked on him at least 6 times and I still continue to find details in his tattoos that I hadn't noticed before. On one shoulder he has a gigantic Bald Eagle that is dramatically falling out of the sky and on the other side he has an entire sleeve that encompasses every inch of skin from his wrist to his sternum. It's one of the most astonishing pieces of artwork I have ever seen. I don't really remember what he said it represented, but it's some sort of jungle scene with Aztec warriors and conquistadors battling dragons sent from the heavens by demon gods with volcanoes, tigers, and medieval knights all beautifully incorporated into the piece. His lower legs have equally incredible ink, but my favorite is this samurai with a drawn sword, on his calf. The detail is so flawless that if you look close enough you'll notice that the pattern on the warrior's kimono is actually marijuana leaves. Brilliant! I didn't know Samurais smoked the ganja. I suppose their ponytails should have given it away, because everyone knows that men with pony tails are either pot smoking hippies, or maniacally sinister warlocks with erratic tendencies to eat thousands of pistachios in one sitting. 

As far as tattoos are concerned, I routinely notice the same familiar ensemble of designs that weren't given much thought and more often than not, were taken right off the wall at your local ink shop. I mostly see the ever present "tramp stamp" (tribal of course), some baby daddy's name, or a retarded dolphin. Then there's the panther made to look like it's climbing, (very popular with the sisters), or the classy rose that always seems to find its way onto a droopy breast. Let's not forget the the Asian writing or the butterfly, however there are so many variations that these don't tend to bother me as much. It would be refreshing to witness tattoos that transcended the more commonplace observance however, like flying farm animals, cartoon super heroes, or scene from a movie. 

From elaborate Japanese dragons to lotus leaves in the wind encompassing a woman's entire back, to intricate snowflakes with vibrant hues of icy blue, I've seen some pretty masterful artwork on my clients over the years. And yet others that convince me to believe that both the artist and the client must have been blindingly inebriated. I do wish that more of my clients had captivating ink adorning their bodies though, it definitely makes the time go by a little faster, even if I spend that time thinking about what would possess a person to put the Cheshire cat on their ass.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Who Framed Roger Rabbit

I hope everybody had a wonderful Easter. More appropriately, I hope you enjoyed your day off gorging on ham, potato salad, and fountains of endlessly flowing chocolate. Although I'm a little too old for egg hunting, I did chase a bunch of hoodlums through the neighborhood with a BB-gun. Baby Jesus would have been proud, since I had originally given it up for lent.

Over the past few years I've become one of those Holiday Catholics. You know, the people that only go to church on Christmas, Easter, Ash Wednesday, and so forth. The thing is, I sort of slipped away from Catholicism many years ago and started going to a non denominational church where they sing happy music and every one's always so happy to see you, and they have a happy choir, and a happy band, and the Pastor smiles, and people talk, and there are no paintings of Jesus, or Mary, but if there were any, I'm sure they'd be happy too. I was shocked when I first walked into one of these brightly lit, so called churches to see people talking, smiling, clapping, and singing. What the hell is going on here, I remember thinking. Why aren't these heathens spontaneously combusting into flames for these acts of sacrilege? And where is Jesus? Who stole Jesus?

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Catholic churches and ceremonies, it is quite the opposite, particularly if you are from Latin America. Let me explain, I'm sure you've all heard of the infamous Catholic Guilt. Well, Hispanics are infamous for adding a little flare to things, as I'm sure you are aware (Who do you think invented spinning rims?). When you go to a Hispanic mass, you are made to feel that you were the one who just killed Jesus. The churches are large cathedrals decorated with somber remembrances of Christ. Every depiction is of him either on his way to crucifixion, or the brutal sanguinary act itself. Jesus is almost always bleeding, and there's always a good one, or two, of Mary holding his lifeless body after he had just died and been stabbed in the side with a spear for good measure. It is always extremely quiet and hundreds of candles adorn the entire church, but mostly at the feet of statues or in designated areas where people are encouraged to light more candles and pray. Usually the only uplifting paintings are symbolically on the ceiling or stained glass windows high along the towering walls. The artwork in these places is out of this world, but so are the attempts to instill copious amounts of guilt and fear. Also, there is never any air conditioning, so you go in your Sunday best to sweat like a whore in church (how convenient). I often wonder if that effect had more to do with strategy than economy.

With all these practices, images, and traditions so intimately interwoven into my religious upbringing and branded to memory, it's no wonder my affair with another religion didn't last very long. I suppose I either became too guilty, or became increasingly suspicious of all the damn happiness. Surely, something was awry, nobody can be happy all the time. And electric guitars? Gimme a break, a dead giveaway of Satan's work. I never did get to the bottom of why lightning bolts didn't rain from the sky to disintegrate all those happy do gooders, but I'm sure they'll get theirs eventually.

My issues with the Catholic Church are probably similar to most people's, like confession, praying to saints, and priests not being able to marry. I have to admit though, I never really believed in those things anyway (well, confession yes, but not to strangers). I guess I've always known that your relationship with God isn't dependent upon those traditions, so following them was never a necessity for me.

Needless to say, I'm still looking for a cult a church with the right combination of good natured people with common sense and an understanding that faith is not defined by anyone other than yourself, and certainly not by tradition, sex deprived pedophiliacs, or a bunch of dudes in funny hats who are more concerned with politics (or who has a bigger hat). Whether you call it salvation or enlightenment, we all have an innate and undeniable desire for our spirits to want a connection with their origin and each other. And I believe that that origin is Love, which many people refer to as God. It's really funny to me that people spend so much time looking for God when he already resides in all of us. When asked if he had found Jesus, Forrest Gump replied, "I didn't know I was supposed to be looking for him". I couldn't have put it any better Forrest, funny how the mind can get in the way sometimes.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Pet Peeve #66

I’m not really sure what the appeal is with this next pet peeve, but I am about fed up with flipping through magazines and seeing advertisements with models in midair as if to say that you’ll be part of some elite flying society of pretty preppy people for buying their clothes. Everywhere I look; it’s an athlete, an actress, a dancer, a fucking baby suspended in air like they took Willy Wonka’s fizzy lifting drink. We are not a kingdom of winged animals, fairies, or wizards with powers of levitation. Are they trying to convince me that these clothes make you feel weightless? What in the hell does that even mean?

While we’re at it, can someone please put a bullet in that SubWay jack ass Jared? Not only do I have to see him on TV with his pants that are big enough to be a parachute for a hippo, but now I have the eye-raping pleasure of seeing his former fat ass with no personality in my beloved magazines doing Got Milk ads. What ever happened to real celebrities? Did they stop drinking milk? Is everybody sucking on the soy titty now?

I also can’t stand men’s cologne ads, particularly the ones by the company whose name starts with a “D” and sounds like “Weasel”. Now, I’m not sure exactly who they think is buying their hog piss toilet water, but rest assured, having sweaty half naked men with poorly contrived attempts at seduction on the page is not making me rush out to buy any. What ever happened to spraying a little bit in a neatly folded flap and letting us get a whiff? At the very least, put a damn girl in the picture. We’ll more readily believe cologne will help us get her than make us look like Tom Brady.

One more thing I need to get off my chest during this blood boiling rhetoric is American Idol. More specifically, the necessity to stretch an elimination day into an hour long show. They do this by making the persons being sent home sing the song they sang the night before, that made people want for them to be sent home to begin with. I have two problems with this: 1) I have to hear them butcher the song again with another pain staking performance reminding me why I hated them so much and 2) the last thing I’m sure they want to do is have to keep their composure while singing a song after hearing the news that 20 million people think they suck and would rather eat fire than have to hear them sing anymore. If Ryan asked me to sing after being cut, I would tell him to shove that microphone where I'm sure he likes it.

I have a few more gripes, but I’m getting a little tired . . . . . So, same time tomorrow?

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

No Country For Old Men

I'm the type of guy that's never really at a loss for words. Sure, there are times when I've spat some quick witted retort and shortly afterward thought of something a bit more clever to say, but I'm rarely ever left without at least something to be expressed. Until today that is. Today, I was rendered absolutely and unequivocally speechless. "What could possibly have accomplished this seemingly impossible feat?", I hear you asking yourselves. Well, my fickle fans, the answer is 60 yr. old v-jayjay. My day had started like any other, but certainly ended the way a Vietnam vet living in a retired community at Bingo night might want it to.

An older woman came in today looking for relief of lower back pain, after having spent all weekend chasing three grandchildren around. Towards the end of the 80 minute massage, I was doing some leg manipulations to stretch her lower back muscles and free up her hip joint. The final stretch required that I cross one leg across the body and over the other leg. From the opposite side of the table, I apply downward pressure on the knee, creating a magnificent pain relieving stretch. Getting out of the stretch is the tricky part, but that's why I get paid the big bucks. So, as I was going back around the table to return the client's leg to it's starting position, she had the brilliant idea to release the snug draping of the sheet from her grasp and place her leg back on her own volition, before I could get back around the table. Well, as you can already imagine, before I had the opportunity to stop her, she had flashed me her elderly vagina in all of it's time weathered glory.

Thank God the lights were dimmed, for it might have taken years and multiple laser surgeries to return my corneas to normal. I am however, going to need at least a little time to recover. I'm thinking a few days rest and maybe hypnosis therapy should do the trick. And I'm so filing for Workman's Comp.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Jurassic Park

You will never believe what I saw at the gym this weekend, an object of antiquity that personifies obsolescence in its purest form, a dinosaur amongst men. A fellow gym patron walked by and as he passed I noticed there was Walkman strapped snugly around his waist, as if proudly on display.

Can you believe that shit? I haven’t seen one of these fossils since, oh I don’t know, the 80’s. The contraption was so enormous, that it had to be tied to this guy’s abdomen by some gigantic neoprene strap with Velcro, resembling more of a corset than anything else. He may as well have walking around with a Boom Box on his shoulder? What the hell is next, fanny packs and calculator watches? Seriously, where does one even find a fucking Walkman? A Betamax would probably fly out of my ass before I could locate one of these relics. Even homeless people own Discmans. Now, in no way am I implying that you need to run out and by yourself an Mp3 player, but holy shit, if strapping an 8 track player to your body is going to be the only way you get to enjoy Gladys Knight and the Pips, I think I have a Best Buy gift card lying around from Christmas that I’ll gladly donate.

Unless you work at a technology museum, or stumbled across a time capsule, there is no reason why you should be caught dead in public with a Walkman. Have some fucking decency.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

The Rock

My first appointment today was a Hot Stone massage. After asking the client a few questions about what she wanted and describing the process of the massage, I quickly realized that this wasn't what she was looking for. It would help if a thorough overview of our massage services were included in the training of the front desk girls. It seems that the only prerequisite for their employment is being cute and having big boobs. I guess I really can't be too mad.

The client concluded that since she had never received a Hot Stone massage before, she thought it would be nice to go ahead and proceed. Yipee. During the massage, I figured it might be helpful to give you guys a little rundown about zee Hot Stonez.

A Hot Stone massage is a deeply soothing and relaxing massage that increases circulation and releases tight muscles. (They are extremely helpful for people with arthritis or joint pain.) The stones are usually Basalt, black volcanic rocks that retain heat very well. Basically the massage strokes are Swedish in nature (superficial, slow, and long gliding strokes) with the stones either being held in the therapists hands, or placed along certain areas of the body. A skilled therapist will incorporate both techniques.

Although most schools teach the use of hot stones, unless their students received actual Massage Degrees, I can guarantee that not enough time was spent learning the intricacies of this modality. I highly recommend that you find someone who either has a degree, (a degree program usually dedicates at least a week to stone work) or has been certified through a nationally recognized workshop. I had a decent dose of training in school, but sought certification afterwards. So many more variables in this method of work, make it difficult to master and easy to do poorly. Since this type of massage requires retrieving stones, placing them on the body, and incorporating them with the use of your hands, timing and flow is essential. An inexperienced practitioner will either use stones that are too hot, leave them out to cool for too long, or not place them along the right paths on the body.

Also, I would not recommend that you get one of these unless the massage is 70 to 80 minutes long. Anything shorter, doesn't allow for thorough stone work because some time is wasted moving to/from the warmer, fishing out stones, and placing/removing them from the body. Also you want enough time for the body to absorb the rock's heat. Most Spas start all their massage services at the top of the hour, which means that instead of a full hour, you receive 50 minutes of actual hands on time. The other ten minutes are intended for asking you questions about your health and what areas you'd like extra focus on, and for changing sheets, washing hands, etc. For some retarded reason, my spa also offers a 50 minute Hot Stone Massage. This is a disgrace, because I'm pressed to give you in 50 minutes what it normally takes, at the very least, 70 minutes to do. I mean, I know I'm good, but being rushed sucks ass.

Whatever you do, don't ever get a 50 minute Hot Stone Massage if you want to not only experience the true essence of the massage, but also reap all of it's wonderful benefits.