They say you can never go Home...

Soldiers of Sparta were allowed to return home after lost battles, only if carried dead upon their shields. I'm convinced this is a more practical and time-saving way to go about it.

Saturday, June 26, 2004

The Veil Has Fallen (Part 1):

Before I left California, I had my first massage. It was given to me by my coworkers, who were somehow of the distinct conviction that I needed to relax.

I'd had a certain amount of fear concerning massages, which prevented me in the past from going. As I feel I am a fairly tightly-wound and repressed person, I feel I need not trifle with things that have potential to

1) Cause me to burst into tears when some secret pain attached to some back-alley chakra is prodded, thereby making me look a sap
2) Cause me to sport a very public erection, thereby making me look a pervert.

Thusly, I have avoided massages with the kind of intensity reserved for high school reunions and rehashing the past with drunk ex-girlfriends.

Nevertheless, I was presented with this Japanese-style massage, and there was no denying my secret fascination/fear any longer.

So prior to the massage, I was instructed to bathe myself “ritually.” This entailed sitting completely naked on a wooden stool, pouring buckets of water over myself. I tried not to think about how this bench had seen more ass than Rob Lowe in the 80’s and concentrated on rinsing out my chlorine-ravaged hair, as ritually as I could muster. Then, I was to step into a jacuzzi, built into the middle of the room, and ritually soak. Again, buck naked. I sat in there for some thirty minutes, looking into a zen garden, listening to the sound of falling water. Very naked. Very ritual.

After the 104 degree soak, I was somewhat overheated. So, during the beginning of the massage, I was breathing jaggedly, desperate to not sound like some pervert getting off on being touched while wearing nothing but a kimono.

Finally the lady giving the massage (magic fingers) broke the silence. I told her that I was moving home and living with my parents, at least initially, while I figured things out. I mentioned that we’ve had our difficulties getting along, my father and I. She told me that when I go home, my job will be to find a new language to use with my Dad.

It was so ironic and prescient that, as SOON as I had finished my massage and come home to check my voice messages, Dad called and essentially negated the relaxation obtained from the experience. Instantly. And none-too-ritually, I might add.

And that was the first time I started practicing my new language with him. One largely populated with F-words.