Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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 andbitch 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.
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
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 everyoneto 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.
Of course I don't expect everyone
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.
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 fora 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.
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
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?
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?
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