Mystic Pizza

So, I stumbled upon this awesome pizza joint a few weeks ago, and now I visit the place like it were giving away free speakers full of crack. It’s called Big Bite, (I originally thought it was a strip joint) and let me tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever eaten better pizza. The ingredients are fresh and hearty. The crust isn’t too soft or too crispy, it’s not too oily, or gush out tomato paste when you bite into it. You can eat it regular style, or fold it in half for more efficient consumption and quite frankly, the slices are . . . .well . . . .BIG!

I don’t think words can do justice to just how heavenly this pizza really is. When biting into a hot slice your eyes slowly roll into the back of your head while a thick string of cheese stretches and fights to stay together. As you chew, a smorgasbord of tastes explode in your mouth in perfect, juicy symphony. Your taste buds receive the bursting cornucopia of flavor and transmit electrical impulses to your brain, describing in explicit detail, every magnificent sensation. A frosty beverage meets your lips and cools your mouth as it washes the remnants of tasty pizza down to your waiting stomach. The wind blows through your hair, goosebumps decorate your skin, and fireworks illuminate the sky. I think I need to change my underwear.

Damn good pizza I say. Damn good.

Weekend at Bernie's

Wow, what an exciting weekend! Lots of really wonderful things happened. It was Cinco de Mayo, the Yankees signed The Rocket, expensive horses ran in circles, De La Hoya and Mayweather fought, Spider Man 3 debuted, 18,000 Mexicans got naked for a picture, and it was my birthday (unfortunately their weren’t that many naked people, but I did manage to grab a few asses).

All in all, I must honestly say it was one of the best birthday celebrations I’ve ever had. I think it even trounces the pool party when I turned seven and infamously ended up having to get seven stitches over my right eyelid. I learned that day what it feels like to get strapped to a giant surf board with a neck brace while a doctor tries to suture a wound that you passionately feel doesn’t need any medical attention, regardless of the 2 pints of blood you’ve already decorated the shiny hospital floors with being carried to the O.R. while screaming bloody murder.

I even got some wonderful gifts too. My favorite cologne, some great movies, tickets to a comedy club, money, and enough gift cards to forget what cash looks like for a while. I’m extremely indecisive though, so I usually don’t like to receive gift cards. I’ll end up going to a store and spending insanely amounts of time trying to decide between two different ipod alarm clocks or two pairs of shoes. I hate feeling like I didn’t get a good deal, because what usually happens is I’ll end up talking to someone who stumbled upon a magnificent sale, which included surround sound speakers and blow job. I’ll curse the heavens, write morbid poetry, and fall into a deep depression for failing to find out where this deal was being offered, because everyone knows how much men love a good . . . . .


set of surround sound speakers.

Flash Dance

People often ask me if I ever get hit on, the answer is yes (well c’mon I’m brown). It’s just that women possess more couth than men and are usually much more subtle with their flirtations. I suppose it would be a little difficult to ignore an erection tenting towards the sky though. (They actually train you for those situations in school.) I haven’t had anyone wave a penis at me like a Louisville Slugger yet, but I hear it happens.

Believe it or not, sprouting wood is an absolutely normal reaction to a massage (I have one every ten minutes), so you can’t automatically assume that you’re being propositioned for sex. The ones you have to worry about are the ones who start writhing around and moaning excessively, or purposefully trying to rub against you. Then there are the more straight forward types who just come right out and ask you (you have to applaud their balls, I...uh... mean, bravery). Now, I work in an upscale spa, so people don’t try shit like that, but we did have this one guy that none of the girls ever wanted to “deal” with. He didn’t speak English (how convenient), and during the massage he would somehow manage to expose himself. After his first offense, the girls just thought it was a harmless accident (clients do expose themselves from time to time, but I’ll get more into that in a sec). After his third game of “peek-a-boo”, nobody thought it was funny, and he was asked not to come back. Dumbass.

I do have this one client who’s an absolute riot. She’s one of the few who’ll talk most of the massage, but she’s so entertaining that I don’t mind. The really funny thing is that she’s a criminal defense lawyer, so she has all these hilarious stories about how she will straight up tell her clients that they’re going to jail, then go out and have a few drinks. The only thing is…… she’s a flasher. The first time it happened, it was no big deal. Like I said before it happens on occasion, but let me be absolutely clear, it's NEVER a therapist error. With her, I'm just not so sure it's happenstance anymore.

Well, miss flasher is extremely well endowed, which is already difficult to deal with. She loves to help herself when it comes to changing positions, never waiting for my assistance, and often flashing a nipple (kind of like how mobsters nonchalantly open the side of their suit jackets to show their gun, as if to say try me). She also gets up on her elbows when prone (facing down), to ask me a question revealing her large, chocolate . . . ahem . . . (I guess I shouldn’t tell her I’m an ass man huh?) Anyway, knowing her, she’s probably just toying with me, or it is totally possible that she’s just really ditzy and can’t follow directions. For as well as she tips, I’ll just pretend the latter.

I’ve had other incidences of brief displays of nudity, usually from foreigners. I’ve come into the room after explaining precisely what to do, only to find the client buck nekkid lying on top of the sheets. Personally, I think the opposite is funnier. I’ve had a few people lying on top of the blanket in full bra and panties, and I’ve even had a couple of knuckleheads get under the sheets wearing the fucking robe. People never cease to amaze me.

Soak This

This weekend was unusually slow for me at the Spa. On one hand it was nice to attend to some things around the house, but of course if I’m not working that means I’m not adding to my retirement (or at least to a set of those spinning rims from Walmart). We had our first week of warm weather and I think people are starting to get out more to enjoy the outdoors and a little bit of sun.

It can be difficult to know sometimes whether or not you’re going to be really busy. Some weekends I’ll have 9 or 10 appointments, and sometimes there will only be half that. There are days when you have four clients booked, but two end up canceling at the last minute. And similarly, there are times when you suspect a slow day and you’ll get a couple of walk-ins. You take the good with the bad (kind of like blowjobs, they’re nice and all, but nobody likes teeth.)

The one thing I hate more than cancellations though, are when people show up late. I certainly have compassion for the ones that are sincere and apologetic, it’s the ones that act like your time (and that of your other clients) isn’t as important as theirs, that get under my nice caramel skin. Keep in mind, when you show up late, I’m forced to make a decision. Do I dock you the time you were late and risk you being upset, or give you the entire session and get behind for the rest of the day? What do you think happens?

You’re requested to show up 15 minutes prior to your appointment, which is standard operating procedure for just about every place of business in the entire health industry known to man; the dentist (that bastard), your family physician, the chiropractor, the va-jay-jay doctor, so on and so forth. The spa is no different, except that we ask you to be early not only to fill out the intake form, but also because with each massage you are given a complimentary foot soak treatment with bath salts and aromatherapy oils. Trust me, the foot bath is just as much for me as it is for you. I can’t tell you how many times someone’s walked around all day in the heat of summer in their sweaty ass shoes only to come in late, miss the foot soak, and leave me to deal with fermented toe jam fumes for an hour. [takes a deep breath] Aaaahh . . . . summer’s right around the corner!

Look Who's Talking

I was recently asked by a few readers about whether or not I talked when giving a massage and I thought this would be a good time to address it. Believe it or not, this is one of the more popular questions concerning my line of work, right next to “Happy Endings” (yeah, yeah, laugh it up jackass) and "Do your hands ever hurt?". Basically the only talking I do during a massage, besides responding to a client’s questions, is asking them if the pressure is okay and to let them know when I’m going to apply hot towels to their body (which feels heavenly by the way).

Otherwise, I’m a firm believer in NOT talking during a massage. You paid good money to come to me for relaxation, stress relief, and alleviation of pain. Other people get paid to talk. Prior to the session, I take your medical history (in case we have sex), and ask a few other questions like what areas you’d like extra attention to and what type of pressure you like. I also inquire into the type of work and activities you do, to get a better understanding of where I might find issues and how to resolve them. Other than that, once we’ve started, I’ll let you know when to flip, when to take a few deep breaths, and when to expect my balls on your forehead (just making sure you’re still paying attention).

Some people do get nervous (mostly the first-timers), and a little chit chat usually sets them at ease. I’m familiar with this process and am pretty good at making people feel comfortable. So, I have no reservations with engaging in a little small talk. Once the massage gets started though and they have an idea of what to expect, they eventually relax and let me do what I do best, which is making you melt.

Every now and then you do get somebody who just won’t shut the hell up. Let’s not confuse these people with my regulars who know me well and initiate a little friendly conversation, (usually during the beginning of the massage). The real “hardcore” talkers don’t interpret your short answers as you prefer silence and wouldn’t mind gagging them with a towel and setting them ablaze like a human bonfire. Oh no, they take your lack of participation as a mere invitation to continue talking about meaningless shit. I’ve had people run their mouths for the entire 60 minutes even while face down with my elbow embedded in their back. I’m pretty gregarious and love good conversation as much as the next guy, but for the love of oxygen consumption, (and my sanity), put a fucking lid on it. I've even had a couple clients thank me for being quiet, explaining that their old therapist wouldn't stop blabbing. That's all the reassurance I need.

C'est La Vie

This morning proved to be a test of patience that I think I scored about a C+ on. It’s a little hard to tell really, because I did curse two people out, yelled at one guy in Spanish to get the hell out of the way, and nodded disapprovingly to three others who were way too bothered with driving while they dialed phone numbers. (Because calling your spouse about how many tomatoes to pick up is so much more important than merging onto highway traffic going 75 mph.) I did refrain from introducing two jay walkers to Jesus and from flashing the finger to an elderly woman who thought it would be cute to ride along side a cement truck for 15 miles and make 800 people late for work.

Since I was already late, I figured I would make a quick deposit at the bank, thinking I wouldn’t have a chance later in the day. Going against my initial impulse to hit the drive through, which everyone knows is slower than just going in, I parked and strolled in for my “quick” transaction. I handed the head teller, (it said so on her name plate) my deposit slip and checks, and patiently waited for my receipt followed by a prompt thank you. The girl was really cute, but I couldn’t help noticing she had a layer of dark peach fuzz that covered all of her arms and her entire chest, (for a moment I wondered what it would be like to pet her and if her boobs were hairy too).

After the first check meandered through her little machine, the printer yelled out as if being stabbed, and then went into cardiac arrest. The really cute Ewok teller apologized profusely while obviously not having a clue on how to fix the issue. I told her not to worry that it had been one of “those” mornings, and that I expected a meteor to take us all out in the next few minutes anyway. I watched the "View" on a nearby TV while I continued to wait and noticed all the other tellers huddling around the defunct machine as if it were an ER patient that had just popped an artery on the operating table and everyone had been struck with a sudden case of amnesia. As I waited for the meteor, I thought how pathetic it would be to have Rosie O’Donnell’s face be the last thing I see before I die.

Eventually, someone besides the “head teller” fixed the printer, and I was on my merry way. Two minutes turned into to twenty, and I began to wonder why I switched banks to begin with and what head teller really meant. Now I was almost an hour late no thanks to the cosmos, but hey, at least I wasn’t in a bad mood (until I arrived at work anyway). “Hey Brown, would you mind putting together these three shelving units we just bought?” I was asked. Sure, because after my hour and a half commute through Hades and the pits of lost souls, there is nothing else I would rather do than assemble a bunch of shelves with a trillion pieces and a screwdriver the size of a votive candle. I’m all over it.

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.