Chair Massage

I had a chair massage event planned for today at a huge law firm. There were five other therapist that were contracted to work the event, two of which I was familiar with. The job was for four hours and each employee of the firm was to receive 10 minutes of chair massage. For those with English as a second language, that equates to about 18 to 20 people with only a pee pee break allowed if needed. The work was pretty much non stop, with barely enough time in between clients to wipe your chair down and put on a new face cover. (These are used because after about ten minutes or so of smashing someone’s face in the chair, drool, make up, and sebum (oil from the skin), are inevitably left behind, and most people don’t want to lay their face in someone else’s skin slime and saliva (although, if it were Jessica Alba’s, I wouldn’t care too much).

I like to do chair massages from time to time, because the money is good and relatively easy to make, and because it reminds me of why I spent $500 on a damn chair that I never get to sit in. On a more serious note, it does come in handy for volunteer work at events like Breast Cancer walks and for promoting one’s business. For some reason that escapes me, it’s much easier to convince a stranger to sit in a chair for a 15 minute massage than it is to get them to lie down on a bed completely naked while you rub hot oil over their bodies in a dark room for an hour, (people are weird like that).

As I said before, the money is good, you get it right away, and at some events you’re even fed and get a few breaks (you know how I am with food). However, this particular one ranked right up there with slave work. No food, warm ass water, and even a warmer room. With only ten minutes per, you don’t really get to sit down at all, so you’re on your feet the whole time too. This may sound like complaining, (which it is), but after four hours of pushing, pulling, compressing, twisting, and contorting your body in every which way for the benefit of a good massage, you tend to get a little tired even when your're in good shape.

The first couple of hours are usually fun, and when people sit in the chair backwards you find it amusing. Towards the end though, when you’re hungry and tired, you don’t find anything cute at all and you definitely do every thing in your power to not get that “big guy” in your chair either. What you never find cute are people that can’t ever relax. It never ceases to amaze me how many people sit in your chair or on your table, are tense, and have no earthly idea what relaxing is or how to achieve it. It’s like teaching someone with cerebral palsy how to do yoga. Coaching someone towards the end of your day and having to say "RELAX" repeatedly, becomes extremely tiresome. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but trying to massage a contracted muscle is like kneading bamboo. It kind of defeats the whole purpose of getting a massage to begin with. Do me a favor, if you’re the kind that has no idea how to relax, smoke a joint before you get a massage. It’ll really help us out. Unless of course your pregnant, in which case you should eat lots of pancakes and listen to Michael Bolton.

Snot Stone Massage

Ideally when you perform any type of massage, you want to have a balanced mind, be free of worry or stress, and most certainly never be angry. Although one is mostly administering touch and manipulating soft tissue, so much more is expressed and transferred unto your client, like your energy (or bad breath) for instance.

Through touch alone a client can sense nervousness, fatigue, inexperience, or recognize confidence, strength, and caring. All of which can alter their mood, how they interpret your techniques, and ultimately their spa experience. With that being said, you never, ever, want to be giving a massage while you’re sick. Not only are you exposing your client to obvious risks but the quality of your work is inevitably compromised.

Upon waking up for work this morning, without forewarning or indication, I had an instantaneous snot spewing head cold. Besides the inability to breath, I felt perfectly fine. Normally I would call another therapist to cover for me, but not only was I opening, I was that therapist. I figured I only had 3 clients today, so I took a Sudafed and headed on in.

The morning went remarkably smooth and after a gallon of oolong tea I was ready for my last client of the day, who was scheduled for a 90 minute Hot Stone Massage. Thirty minutes had passed by and the client was face down enjoying her little piece of heaven. I don’t know if it was the increased temperature of the room, or the affects of the medicine wearing off, but I was immediately hit full force by a gravity-induced nasal drip. I tried leaning my head back to slow the avalanche of phlegm from creeping down my face without having my hands leave the client, but there was no stopping this rogue mucus from reaching the outside world. The stream of snot had begun its descent and started to meander its way through my mustache creating an itch of a lifetime. Without being able to sniffle or blow my nose, I was left with no choice but to use my sleeve, until I could get reinforcements.

Eventually I was able to get to some small towels for quick wipe here and there, but the rest of the massage was miserable and I was so preoccupied with keeping bodily fluids from dripping on the client that my performance was a bit affected. By the end of the session I had a soaked sleeve, 3 snot rags distributed around the room, and my nose was completely rubbed raw. Despite it being the worst stone massage I’d ever given, the client said it was one of the best she’d ever received and left me with a substantial tip.

Damn, she should catch me on a good day.

Back to the future

I massaged a 6ft tall woman today. So far, she is the tallest client I’ve ever had. I’m 6’2” myself, so my reach allows me to create long and fluid movements that can traverse your whole body, lulling you into a state of total relaxation. Considering my height and that all my clients are women, I am usually at an advantage when executing various techniques. With this particular client though, the playing field was a bit more even, but it was still 90 minutes of some of my best work!

I know, you’re probably thinking that 90 minutes is way too long, but really it’s the perfect amount of time. It lends for a more thorough massage, and I don’t feel rushed to work everything in especially when a client needs extra attention to a specific area. The two hour massage is definitely too long though. Try doing one of those at 9:00 am on a Sunday morning still hung over from the night before. Good times.

She was about 40 years old, worked out regularly, and had one of the most beautiful backs I’ve ever worked on. Most tall women are also on the thin side, which usually means that I won’t be doing any elbow glides, due to the protruding ribs exposed like little speed bumps. Hers was immaculately well toned, yet retained every bit of shapely femininity. To understand my excitement on working with such a beautiful canvas, imagine what Michelangelo must have thought when presented with the Chapel’s ceiling (okay well maybe his initial excitement anyway).

One of the fun things about my job is that I can be as creative as I want and there are no set routines to which I must adhere. (Kind of like a club bouncer. I imagine he can choose any number of ways in which to pummel a rowdy patron’s face in, or select from a long list of choke holds to subdue a drunkard and remove him from the premises.) Often times however, the clients anatomy and state of physical fitness, will determine what strokes I’ll be able to perform. For instance, there is a technique in which I position the arm behind the back, (as if you were being arrested) and pull the scapula away from the rib cage stretching the rhomboids and surrounding tissue. (It sounds gross, but I assure you it feels magnificent.) On most people this stretch can be achieved with minimal work, but on others there is a little too much “flesh” to allow my fingers to “hook” under the shoulder blade. You can either try the best you can, or skip the scapular pull all together. Over the years I’ve learned to move on. If you’re fumbling around trying to get someone’s body to do something it won’t, it will only make you look like you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. Kind of like the time I lost my virginity. But that my friends, is an entirely different story.

Oh Cancun

Ladies and Gentlemen . . . . . . the stupendous Mr. Poopie has returned and although I didn’t think it was possible, with even a more gorgeous brown hue than ever. I apologize for not informing you that I was leaving on a short, all inclusive vacation to the tropical, bikini-clad paradise of Cancun, but I have enough wonderful tales (and pictures) to more than make up for my blogging hiatus, and for forcing you to look at Fergie’s picture for longer than absolutely necessary. My deepest apologies for that offense. The latter of course.

Tales of a Mexican circus, sexed up waiters, a Beetlejuice midget, and a honeymooning stripper will all undoubtedly entertain you. I’ll dazzle you with stories witnessed from the very center of my first ever Foam Party, and make you gasp as I recall the night that shall forever be known as the Bloody Buffet Horror (the tip of my finger will never be the same). There were also drunk Pollocks, sun burned albinos, and more beautifully bronzed boobies than the whole Eskimo population could see in an entire lifetime. And finally, I shall recount the most horrific tale of all, the return flight home. (Let's just say there was more vomiting on the plane, then there was during the whole week in Mexico.)

I’ll be diligently working on these stories through out the upcoming days, and will have something up soon. Please be patience, as the alcohols is still wearing off.

Radio Head

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Chocolate Jesus

Have you heard about the whack-job that made a life size statue of Jesus out of milk chocolate? I’m all for most anything made of chocolate (as you already know), but give me a break. That’s not even the bad part. He conveniently left out the loin cloth that every other depiction of Christ is respectfully adorned with, leaving him completely naked. What possesses people to do this sort of thing, I’ll never know. Short of peeing in the holy water at church or catapulting fetuses from a high rise, that’s probably a sure fire way to go straight to Hell. I’m guessing.

What a fucking loony. Surely this is a man without a momma. If I did some senseless shit like that, my Mom would make me eat all that chocolate in one sitting, saying Hail Mary’s the whole time. I totally get that he’s an artist, and he’s worked with food in the past, and blah blah blah. But dude, don’t act surprised that people want to pull your eyes out and shove them up your ass, so you can see what a shit head you are for pulling something like that during the holiest week of the year. Dumb ass. Can't you just do some enema painting or fling your feces around like everybody else?

Sure, you can say whatever you want because of freedom of speech and all, but I dare you to scream the “N”-word in the faces of some gang bangers. There will be repercussions my friend (assuming you’re white anyway). And don’t insult a Brown man’s momma either, that shit will get you stabbed, even if the crazy bitch did make him eat 200 pounds of chocolate.

Cheerio Mate

I was having cheerios for breakfast this morning, and about half way through, I was overcome by a feeling of disgust. Kind of like when you take a girl home after a night of drunken festivities and become sober in the middle of playing hide the sausage, only to realize the travesty you hooked up with (hypothetically speaking of course). I felt like I was eating soggy cardboard.

I have pretty decent breakfast rotation, but after today, I’m done with cheerios. As the Trumpster would so emphatically declare, "You're Fired!" I don’t suppose there’s anything really exciting about them anyway, besides that they help lower your blood pressure or cure cholera, or something like that. Wooptiedoo. They certainly don’t turn your milk into a sugary rainbow of delight, make cool crackling noises, or lacerate your gums. They don’t even stay crunchy for very long, and no amount of blueberries or strawberries will ever take away the fact that they taste like the box they come in (or an old shoe).

The more I think about them, the more I realize how much they really suck. No wonder I’m so grouchy in the morning. I have a big bland boring bowl of odorless, tasteless, insipid, and characterless cereal to look forward to. Cheerios are so inviting, they don’t even have a freakn’ mascot. How do you not have a mascot these days? C’mon, if you want to sell me on something you have to bring out some black vampires, senile pirates, Irish midgets toting marshmallows, or something. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have some oatmeal instead. At least they have some cool Amish guy on their box.