Not Necessarily Necessary

Every year for the past 5 or so years, I treat myself to a massage on my birthday. Only, I never actually go through with it because once my birthday arrives, I tell myself that I haven’t done enough in the past year to deserve such a gratuitous reward. Its the one thing that allows my friends to say I’m full of shit. Well, that, and any time I say that I’m going to confront someone.

This past November, I really was serious. I had worked my ass off all year and damn it, I deserved a massage! I told all of my close friends so that I’d be held accountable. I even made sure I was scheduled at work on my birthday so that I would have further justification. A day off AND a massage would simply be too much for me to ask of myself. I am my own tyrannical overlord.

When my birthday week finally came, I was thrilled. Nearly every conversation I had ended with “Sunday is my birthday, so I’m going to get a massage!” Anyone listening in would certainly think I came from extreme poverty. The day before my birthday, I treated myself to a much-needed haircut (after work, of course) before attending the taping of “Eddie Murphy: One Night Only.” The event was a lot of fun, although Eddie Murphy didn’t perform. I took my friend Phil and we enjoyed an open bar and delicious hors d’oeuvres while watching a montage of Eddie’s career highlights. Toward the end of the night, Stevie Wonder came out to do a set and Eddie joined him for a song whilst doing his Stevie Wonder impression. On our way out, we met the legedary Sugar Ray Leonard and I got up the nerve to ask him for a photo. It was the perfect birthday gift, compliments of Comedy Central.

Work was more pleasant than usual Sunday morning, mostly because I knew I could get away with giving even less fucks on account of the National Holiday. Plus, I had a party planned for that night and was looking forward to a forced gathering of my closest friends at one of my favorite bars. By the time I got home, I had been on the phone with several friends recounting the highlights of the previous night’s event. I quickly relized that my entire weekend had been filled with rewards, so I couldn’t possibly go through with a massage now! I mean, how egregious could I allow myself to be?!

Although I wouldn’t gift myself a birthday massage, I kept secretly looking for a reason to get one. I worked harder at my career, wrote more and booked more shows. No matter what I did, though, nothing seemed substantial enough to earn a reward.

Over Christmas, I flew to Florida for a wedding and then to Chicago to be with my family. My schedule never allowed me to adjust to the time changes, so I slept through most of the 5 total flights. I got back to L.A. and immediately went back to work. Somewhere along the way, between having slept on planes, couches, a floor, and a cot, and after coming home to work, hike, and paint my room, I hurt my back pretty badly. I knew it was nothing that needed a doctor, but the pain was such that by the 29th, I couldn’t sleep through the night. So I finally decided to go through with a massage. Not as a reward, mind you, but as a necessity. I scheduled an appointment with my friend Michaela for Sunday, December 30, just in time to include it as part of my New Year’s resolution to take better care of myself.

We went to Barai Massage, a place that had been recommended to me for the past three years. When we walked in, we were cheerfully greeted by a middle-aged Asian woman. She was seated low behind a giant counter covered in plants and price charts. I went over my options, confused: Swedish, Traditional Thai, The Combo, Deep Tissue, Aromatherapy, Thai Herbal, and Pregnancy Massage. “Pregnancy massage?” I asked, “Is that the one where they put the baby inside you?” The woman threw head back and forth with laughter, nearly banging it on the desk. I was embarrassed by the over-reaction of such an easy joke. I asked her for a recommendation, confessing that I wasn’t sure of the difference in massages. After a brief explanation, I decided the deep tissue was what I needed. “I’ve never had a massage before, so I’ll do the deep tissue,” I excitedly explained. This must have been the single most hysterical thing she had ever heard, because now her whole body rocked back and forth with laughter. With tears in her eyes, she slapped the desk again and again, mocking “deep tissue…..first time….deep tissue…deep tissue…so funny.” I wasn’t sure which was funnier, that I was an adult woman in Los Angeles that had never had a professional massage, or that I thought deep tissue was definitely the way to go. Once she finally pulled herself together, she told me that I’d be getting the Swedish massage, end of discussion.

Before being taken back into the room, we were instructed to leave our shoes in the lobby/holding area. Michaela was pretty comfortable with the process, but I felt a little strange hanging out barefoot in a room that looked like the waiting room of a free clinic. We weren’t seated long before our respective masseuses came out to retrieve us. Although Michaela later insisted that mine was a woman, I’m still not totally convinced. Aside from very small breasts, there were absolutely no signs of womanhood. He/she had very short hair, wore no makeup, and was dressed most appropriately for an evening of skateboarding.

I was lead through a series of rooms and hallways made up of huge, dark curtains to a back room the size of a prison cell. Next to the massage table was a single lit candle and an analog clock. Aside from that, the room was bare. It felt a little too cozy a place to have multiple people stripping down in. I couldn’t help imagining all that fabric harboring various germs from past customers. I had pictured it to be much more sterile, like a doctor’s office, but with incense. My masseuse left me alone to undress and settle in, but returned to see me only topless, carefully folding my clothes into a neat pile in the corner.

Once it began, I quickly found it to be oddly anti-climactic, mostly because I was expecting to have an near out-of-body experience. For the first 30 minutes, my whole body remained tense from my constant giggling throughout. My childish side couldn’t help being amused by the slapping noises echoing from other curtained caves. By the time I fully relaxed, it was time to turn over. I hadn’t expected the massage to include my arms and legs, and was disappointed that the back portion had ended. For the remainder of the session, I shifted my focus to the constant tick of the clock near my head, which was slowly driving me insane and seemed to be getting louder and louder. My masseuse instructed me to sit up for the finale so that he/she could more thoroughly knead my neck and shoulders. “Ok. done,” he/she said coldly, quickly following up with, “Are you okay?” I paused for a moment before answering. My consciousness matched my posture, which resembled a dead body. I was, of course, okay. Thrilled that I had finally gone through with it, but disappointed that it hadn’t been a just a bit more intense. “Thank you,” I mumbled, and he/she left me alone to regain control of my body and get dressed. Next time I’m definitely getting the deep tissue.

Head for the Hills

I’m not sure exactly when it started, but at some point in my adolescence, I started developing a strong curiosity for all things macabre.

My first experience with death as I remember it was when my father’s mother passed away. I was seven. Although I didn’t fully grasp the concept, I knew my relationship with my grandmother had come to an end. At the wake, I stretched my tiny little arm up and into the casket to hold onto her cold, lifeless hand. The initial shock of the feeling quickly transformed into a fascination with the reality and finality of death. It was so bizarre for me to think that while the shell of this woman remained, she could not communicate with me.

Within a year of that, the family dog died (more on this another day) and I watched in horror as my new puppy slipped through our fence and ran out into the road where he was immediately flattened like a worthless, diseased squirrel. As I write this, I can still see and hear the incident in all its horror. My dad has always been honest to a fault and along with disclosing the location of my dear friend’s burial, he explained to me that Lucky had to be stuffed into two heavy duty trash bags before being placed into his shallow grave so that other animals wouldn’t be able to smell him and then dig up his tiny body for a late night feast. He also noted that it would be a huge mess, so I didn’t waste any time wondering weather it was to preserve Lucky and his integrity. I was 8, so it was the most appropriate time for me to have all of this information. For months after Lucky’s death, I would go sit next to his grave behind our house, carefully navigating the area so as not to step directly on him and smash him. I wasted away several hours that summer confiding in Lucky and chatting with him as if his little tail were going to poke out of the ground and wag in agreement. Although I had just gotten him, we had become best friends instantly, which would come to be a pattern in my social life that has stuck with me to this day.

Fast forward 10 years through many heartbreaking, unexpected deaths of family members and friends. Fast forward only because I don’t have time to recount them all properly in a blog.

My curiosity of death intensified when I moved to California. Los Angeles is home to some of the most infamous murders and celebrity deaths in United States history. From the gruesome Manson Family murders to the more mysterious deaths like that of Elizabeth Short, better known as the Black Dahlia, there is no shortage of the sick and twisted to satiate my taste for the tasteless.

Now, on nights when I need to clear my head, I go for a drive…past the house that Marilyn Monroe died in. Or I cruise through Brentwood to inspect the peaceful block where O.J. Simpson stabbed Ron Goldman and Nicole Brown Simpson to death (nearly cutting off her head, I might add). Its really quite relaxing. I’ve even taken people on tours, complete with all the gory details of the events.

My propensity for the darker side of life doesn’t end with high-profile murders. I’m also completely obsessed with war, especially the Vietnam war. I could literally talk about it all day and without becoming bored. But again, more on that another day. And yes, I’m available for parties. Oddly, I have no interest in gory horror movies. Knowing that the events didn’t actually take place totally ruins the fun of it.

…Which brings me to my reason for all of this: I am elated about the news of a severed head being found in the Hollywood Hills. First, lets get real. Anyone that is getting their head chopped off is very likely a gang member or, at the very least, really emotionally unstable and also a drug user. In other words, useless. Now that you’re all a bit desensitized, lets celebrate this amazing little piece of history. I mean, can you imagine what its like to come across such a great souvenir on your morning hike? I would’ve held it up by the hair for the news cameras, while crying through laughter. Those women are now tied to Los Angeles history forever, without committing a crime or dying. That. Is. Priceless. I envy them.

The absolute guarantee that WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE blows my mind. Weather its in a horrific murder, an unjust war or simply, peacefully in your sleep when you’re 100, you will die and so will I. When you’re frustrated with all life’s uncertainties, just think of that. Comforting, isn’t it?

Thats Festive!

Christmastime: That special time of year when I experience the bliss of overhearing one of my favorite exchanges of all time.

Person 1: “Thats festive” Person 2: “Thank you!”

Nothing is snarkier and more deliciously satisfying than an in-person insult that the insultee doesn’t recognize.  The more traditional method of insulting someone behind their back is much less creative and challenging. Its also poor sportsmanship. Verbal insults are much like hand-to-hand combat. If your opponent is unable to defend themselves, then its called domestic abuse. Same goes for verbal battles.

Example: If I call you a hideous dragon-breath-having thief to a mutual friend, then I’m the asshole and am not to be trusted. But…if I were to say to your face, “Stay away from my purse, you rank woodland beast”, you’d have the opportunity to slaughter me with your incalculable wit (not likely) or laugh it off and amble away as if you thought it was all in jest and also found it to be hysterical.

Personally, I’m not one for conflict. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I avoid situations that might create tension, rather, it means that I make a solid effort to distill my aspersions into sharp slander disguised as a soft biting jab to further initiate the insultee into my inner circle of friends. My closest friends are able to distinguish these types of insults from general camaraderie jeers before the words even come out of my mouth, oftentimes hitting me or instructing me to “shut up” or “don’t you dare” when they see me get that gleam in my eye.

Rest assured, friends. I will not let you down. My verbal abuse is just clever enough for me to win by KO every time. Also, beware of others like me (intellectuals), especially during the Holidays. While you may find it charming to wear a handmade scarf in your late Nana’s honor, I see it as an opportunity to point out that while you may miss her, you should be thankful you’re no longer receiving such abominable garments. Its nothing personal. Its my life blood.

Merry Christmas.