Air Force One

The coolest thing EVER happened this weekend. No, I did not get a scrotum piercing attached to a chain wallet, but I did get to massage a staff member of Air Force One! How awesome is that? Pretty cool I must say. I will not say exactly what she does though, for fear that my blog will be subjected to scrutiny from the Secret Service for having the words Secret Service and President in its paragraphs, but I will say that she has direct contact with the President and is responsible for making sure his floaties are secure in case of a water based landing.

She thought that I was so wonderful that she rebooked with me and offered to give me a tour of the plane. Okay, so she’s not really going to show me the plane, but she did say that she’d bring me a pin with little wings just like the one the President likes to wear. I tried to push for a coloring book, but she said that “W” keeps those in a safe and she’s not really sure who holds the second key. I proposed that the dog probably does, and she thought that could be a possibility, but then mumbled something about needing to get around the security pad with fingerprint identification.

I did find out that the President’s seat belt buckle actually has the presidential seal on it, as does the box of M&M’s for the small group of reporters that are allowed to be on board. I can’t really tell you what else was discussed because its G13 classified and because my screen keeps flickering (I think they're listening).

She was a most delightful client, and once again, one of the few in which I didn’t mind talking to for the majority of the session. Rest assured my faithful readers, these people are very rare and future blog entries will continue to be the normal stories depicting ungrateful clients, skin abnormalities, personality disorders, racism, flatulence, nudity, vulgar language, sex, bodily fluids, stupid people, and possibly even more sex. Because honestly, there’s a limit to how much niceness I’m willing to endure everyday at work.

Forget Paris

One of the many things I love about my job is meeting new and interesting people. People that, under normal circumstances, I would have never met and would have never had the opportunity to be enlightened by their knowledge and experiences.

As I’ve mentioned many times before, talking is not usually a customary practice during a massage, but often time you are blessed with someone in your midst that is not only extraordinary, but willing to talk to you and share a bit of who they are.

Over the years I’ve massaged people from every walk of life and from every profession. Professional bodybuilders, surfers, powerful CEO’s, criminal lawyers, politicians, professional horseback riders, singers, dancers, artists, doctors, restaurant owners, preachers, and linguists. The list goes on and on. I’ve truly been blessed to have been placed in the path of these people, if only for a little while.

Yesterday, I had a wonderful client who was a former journalist with a rich history in international business and P.R. work. She was very well traveled and we spoke in Spanish, English, and French. She talked to me about when she lived in Paris, how amazing the people in Japan were, and even about the political history of my own birth country. I was captivated by her stories and before our time was up, she had even recommended a book for me to read. She said that she’d bring it to me upon her next visit.

I’ve always been a dreamer and hopeless romantic of sorts, with aspirations to travel the world learning different languages and immersing myself completely in foreign cultures. I want to experience backpacking through Europe, walking along the Great Wall of China, and looking directly into the eyes of a curious young cheetah who’s decided to lounge on the hood of my jeep after a meal. Hiking in Tibet, Sailing in Greece, Muay Thai fights in Thailand, and carnivals in Brazil. South Africa, Australia, India, and Japan, [deep sigh] what amazing adventures I would have . . . . .

Intolerable Cruelty

Before every massage I conduct a small dialogue with clients designed to obtain pertinent medical information and to discover their expectations which will help in determining the area of focus and my course of action.

This procedure is known as the “Intake”. Basically, I ask a few simple questions like have you had any recent surgeries/injuries, do you have a medical condition that I need to be aware of, and do you have any allergies? I also ask what areas they’d like me to spend extra time on and what type of pressure they prefer. Most people say things like, “Oh I have a cut here, my neck and shoulders are killing me, and I like deep pressure”, or “I’m training for a marathon, could you please work on my calves really well?” or “My feet are extremely ticklish.” I welcome this type of information because not having it could mean the difference between a good massage and somebody kicking you in the face. This is also a good time to disclose that you have eczema, are pregnant, or have the bubonic plague.

Some people deem it necessary to use this time to divulge the most inconsequential details of their existence like how they caught their husbands with another woman and are secretly plotting his demise, or when they fell off a horse when they were 8 and now they can see spirits (I should seriously start writing some of them down). Anyway, every now and again people forget to mention the most monumentally important information like hypersensitivity to temperature, *a missing limb, or that their back is so acne ridden it resembles the surface of the moon.

One of my clients this past weekend was, for the most part, like any other. I had started this particular massage face up and worked my way from her head down to her ankles, remembering that she can’t stand having her feet touched. When she turned over, I worked on her calves, hamstrings, and glutes and then pulled the blanket down to massage her back. Now, understand that the lights are dimmed almost all the way down and since the majority of light I use to see, comes from a few flickering candles around the room, I didn’t notice anything unusual about her back at first glance. As with every massage though, what my eyes fail to see, my hands always notice. Let’s just say that it felt like massaging a gravel road. Its one thing to give a client a salt glow or sea-salt scrub, but it’s entirely different when it’s the client’s skin producing the exfoliating beads and lubricant.

Although I was sympathetic to her condition many thoughts began to flood my mind, like “Thanks for the heads up asshole”. You know we have gloves for this kind of shit, did you just think that I wouldn’t notice that your back feels like bubble wrap? Honestly people, I always warn my dentist about the 12 course meal I had right before a cleaning, don’t therapist deserve the same consideration? If you have some weird fetish where you pour sugar on your back after a bath then roll around in a colony of fire ants, by all means, that's your God given right. All I'm saying, is at least let a brotha know.



* I once went to massage a client’s arm that wasn’t there.

Dante's Peak

So, I’m chillin’ in the sauna at my gym after a particularly long day at work and a decent weight lifting session, just trying to wind down and relax. After some time passes, a guy in his twenties walks in wearing a full set of clothes. Before you know it, he walks back outside to read the mammoth sign he passed on the way in that tells you all the rules like to shower first, not to dry your dirty clothes on the rocks, not to exercise, or clip your nails, and to ONLY wear towels. As he’s reading the sign, he keeps the door open with an extended arm as if he were holding the elevator open for old Mrs. Johnson and all her cats on the fourth floor.

Now, as it’s already been established, I am not a rocket scientist. However, I am also not completely ignorant to the laws of science. This particular gym patron was completely oblivious to not only optimal sauna functionality, but also to common courtesy. Dum-dum was letting all the cold air in, and all the hot air out, thus lowering the desired temperature in the sauna and negating the very purpose of sitting inside an active volcano’s core to begin with.

After reading the rules and regulations to satisfaction, he finally found a seat at the far end of the room. The temperature eventually returned to its comfortable eyeball popping state and I was just beginning to slip back into my little realm of relaxation when for the first time in my life, I hear a sound I would never expect to hear in the sanctity of a sweat temple . . . . . a cell phone ringing. Okay, so I had gotten over the fact that shit head didn’t shower, was wearing clothes, and left the door open, but seriously, a phone?

Forgive my Spanish, but who the fuck brings a cell phone into the fucking sauna? I was in complete shock. Not only did the damn phone ring, but then he ANSWERS it and proceeds to have an entire fucking conversation IN the sauna. That's about as rude as tapping people on the shoulder with a giant dildo while they pray in church.

Well, this must have been a life and death situation you say? You would have thought the same as me. I expected him to say, “Yes Mr. President right away!” or “She’s having the baby right now?” or even “I told you it wasn’t mine!” No. He just chatted away with one of his buddies like we were all standing in line at the movies. I was so livid, but way too exhausted to say anything. I just cut my steam session short and headed home. I felt so violated.

The worst thing about this entire fiasco is that the whole time the only thing I could think about was who this motherfucker’s cell phone provider was. I can’t even get a damn signal on the second floor of the whole God forsaken building, let alone in the deep recesses of the locker room.

Looks like I need a new network. How 'bout you?

Money Pit, part two

I have glorious news! The renovations are finally complete and I am proud to announce that I showered in my own bathroom today! The new shower head is one of those over sized ones you find in fancy hotels and the tub is all new and sparkling. The vanity is also brand new and a few inches higher (my back is thankful), with a large new sink and a faucet that allows me to fit my whole head under it (don't ask). New light fixtures were also installed with bulbs that emit powerful face-melting beams of blinding radiation. At least I can charge people for tanning.

As with most good things in my life, they are unfortunately accompanied by something not so good. Like when I started dating a nympho for the first time. Initially, things were wonderful. Sex was spontaneous, crazy, and occurred in multiples . . . . . unfortunately, so was her personality. As I was saying, about the good and the bad, now that I have a newly renovated bathroom, the garbage disposal decided that it was going to spew forth everything it ate for the past couple of months (I knew that femur was going to cause problems), have a massive myocardial infarction, and die.

Apparently, there had been a clog in the pipes since the early 1900’s and I had to call the bathroom renovation guy back to gut out everything under the kitchen sink and replace it with shiny new internal organs. Since the kitchen sink also appeared to have a weak bladder, the flooring to the cabinets had to be replaced as well.

New kitchen sink parts . . . . . . $60

6 hours of labor . . . . . . . . . . . . . $240

Being able to continue dismembering stupid people in the privacy of my own home . . . . . . . . . priceless!

Now I'm just waiting for the A/C unit to submit it's letter of resignation and to be instantly incinerated by a lightning bolt.

Money Pit

So, I’m having my bathroom renovated right now, and frankly my house looks like Martha Stewart and Snoop Dog had a crack party over the weekend.

I hired this guy, (a referral from a friend) who is well known in the area for timely and trustworthy work. I’ve purchased all the materials and he is only charging me for the labor. Anyway, I went out of town this past weekend and he assured me that upon my return, I’d have a fully functioning bathroom and that he’d put the finishing touches (tile and paint) throughout the rest of week. Well, when I arrived home on Sunday afternoon, not only was the bathroom not functioning, but homeboy made the house look like Hurricane Katrina paid a visit. Apparently there were a couple of snags. One which involved breaking my beautiful, very detailed, very expensive, hand carved dragon in the next room and the other which turned my carpet into a murder scene. To his credit, the bathroom does looks beautiful I just can’t shower in it yet. It’s kind of like dating a supermodel that you can’t have sex with.

Yesterday, I had to go to the gym at the booty crack of dawn just to take a shower. Today, I was able to use the bath tub, but still not the shower, which is as helpful to me as having two left thumbs. I hadn’t taken a bath since I had floaties and crayons. Bath tubs are nice and all when you have those spacious Jacuzzi tubs. Mine however, is of the standard variety and I, by the way, am a tall ass man. As a matter of fact, my shower head protrudes from the wall just a few inches from the ceiling for cranial clearance. Most people’s shower head hits me in the fucking neck and I have to do the mambo to wash my hair. A tall guy in a little tub, sort of looks like a Great Dane in the kitchen sink. Not to mention, the whole concept of swimming in the nastiness you’ve already washed off doesn’t seem very appeasing to me unless there are bubbles and champagne involved (two things I’ve sworn off before work).

Captain Jack is supposed to be over today to remedy the shower situation. Let’s hope everything runs smoothly or he’ll be swimming with the fishes.

The Replacements

Last night I was hoopn’ it up a local church (J.C. loves basketball) that I play at a couple of nights a week. There wasn’t as large a turn out as usual, and I also found out that my buddy who runs the program, a six foot four Canadian Preacher (yes God does work in mysterious ways) had torn his ACL and will have surgery in a few weeks. Now, I can only imagine what unbearable pain that must be . . . . . . . but surely he’s come to terms with being Canadian by now. Hehehehehe . . . . I’m just kiddin’. He did say that he hurt himself playing ball and when it happened, it felt like someone had stabbed him in the knee with a hot poker. Carajo. I assured him that it wouldn’t affect him getting lap dances when we go out for beers next weekend.

Usually we ball for at least two and a half hours, but as the night went on, our numbers dwindled down until we didn’t have enough for five on five anymore. So, my boy lil Tim suggested we hit a local pick up game at another church down the street. He said he had some peeps that played there and lucky for us, they were still balln’. My excitement to continue playing that night quickly dwindled as we approached the court and I noticed that just about everyone there was a good ‘ol boy.

Now, it’s already been established that I am not a racist. . . . . I despise everyone equally. Well . . . okay. . . .stupid people definitely get the brunt of my wrath, but besides that, my desire to relentlessly choke people to death and feed them to sharks is just about evenly distributed among every body else. However, those of you who’ve ever played basketball with a bunch of rednecks knows that their form of basketball, is more like football without pads. I’m not totally unfamiliar with violently bashing someone’s head against the ground in a mindless rampage for sport, but when I want to play football . . . I play football. It was too late to leave though, we were recruited on the spot.

As what usually happens at events like these, guys feel as though they need to establish dominance. They must have thought because I wasn’t one of them, (or as big) that they were going to walk all over me. Little did they know, I can play rough with the best of them. And as usual, in these types of situations, when you start whoopin’ ass and making a whole bunch of people look stupid, tensions start to rise. The shoving became more intense, the fouls became a little more flagrant, and the trash talking was at an all time high.

To sum up a long story, my shirt got ripped in half and I almost had to hand out a beat down in a church. Let me repeat that one more time. The guy that had the unfortunate job of having to guard me all night, wanted to fight me, in church, because when I made the third game winning shot in his face, I told him to go home. That’s right, I made the bucket in his eye, and I said, “GO HOME”. Just as I had done a hundred times before, on a hundred different courts, against a hundred more difficult opponents. Apparently he didn’t appreciate looking foolish. So, he tried to step to me. It took every ounce of my being not to deliver a sharp blow to his temple with my elbow then proceed to beat his ass with my Jordans, but I thought better of it and walked away. I paid a lot of money for those shoes, and besides, who in their right mind gets into fisticuffs in church?

I seriously don’t think I had ever been more tempted in my life. Except for that one Halloween party when I made out with both Catwoman and slutty Snow White at the same time. We all know how that ended. And my friends laughed when I said I wanted to go as the Trojan on the box of condoms.