Bad Dweams and Double-Trouble With Asian Massage Parlours: A Tuesday in May

So I have this kind of active imagination.

Since I have a picture, I know I did not imagine this:

Lionhead Rabbit Convention: let the judging begin

No, I'm not going to explain this photo. You have to interpret it on your own. Just know that it took a few moments to get the perfect shot and I got it.

One downside to my infantile brain is that sometimes, usually when overheated and sleeping, I have weird, not-so-happy dreams. It happened to me last night. And to make matters worse, I woke up from my urine-soaked nightmare right as my alarm went off, meaning that I couldn't just pull the rubber sheets off my bed, throw them in the washer, and go back to sleep and forget the whole thing and pretend like mom and dad won't have one of those hushed talks when they think you're in your room doing your homework, one of those talks when they ask each other "when is he going to stop doing that? Surely he should have outgrown it by now" and then they notice you are standing there but try to pretend like they're not talking about you, and you wonder the same thing and don't have an answer and you're 17 years old now go back to sleep and forget it. It was one of those dreams where you feel helpless, and it put me in this weird funk, a spacey, unsettled mood for the following six hours or so.


Cue relaxing Asian massage number one: I left work at about noon to go across the street to one of those Qi-Gong massage places that are basically everywhere in New York City, offering massages for roughly $9 for every ten minutes of rub. I have been pretty loyal to Ma's Body Work in Greenpoint for a number of reasons:

1. it is across the street
2. they offer a stamp card, and theoretically I will someday acquire enough Chinese characters for a free massage (or an edgy yet Zen-inspirational tattoo)
3. it is the only one I've ever been to
4. both of my kidneys are still (theoretically) in my body, which, after 7 visits, makes it seem like they're trustworthy enough
5. even though its batteries are now dead, it used to have this cool gold waving cat in the window that was quite welcoming (he's still there, just not as friendly anymore, now that he no longer waves but instead gives kind of an eerie Nazi salute)
6. and probably the most important point here, being an ignorant Southerner by birth and therefore uneducated xenophobe, I thought "Ma's" must be a family business — the strong matriarch a cornerstone of their family trade and therefore providing the massage parlor's name — and always assumed that the oldest woman on the premises must be "Ma" and therefore the most skilled masseuse, going so far as to request her by name or offer to wait for her, not realizing until recently that "Ma" is a pretty common name for Asian people and that it's probably their last name and I am, as suspected, a total jackass.

Needless to say, the massage totally pulled me out of my funk, gave me 20 minutes of deep, uninterrupted thought that resolved my dream-related depression, and released lots of tension from my shoulders. (There is really no way to make this "relaxation" not sound like I was given a handjob, but I promise, I don't like handjobs from strangers. Anymore.)

But there's a new kid on the block, so to speak, in the form of another massage parlor about 200 feet away that I've heard from a couple of people is "better" than Ma (the old woman at Ma's). So I figure, what better way to find out than a little head-to-head comparison?

Now I don't know the name of this place but it's on the same side of the street, it has white curtains and a VHS tape of a gooey-looking back massage playing on loop on a 13" TV/VCR combo in the window. I appreciate their no-nonsense approach to deterring funny business:

I have to deduct a point for the narrow stalls, as disrobing was cramped. But what happened once I was on the table can only be described by the following series of noises and tactile descriptions:

The staccato sound of flip-flops flipping and flopping into the chamber. How long? Twenty minutes, please. Inner monologue: Ouch, damn, she's strong. I'm having a hard time breathing, but in a good way. Don't fight back, don't resist, absorb. Breathe. Exhale during pressure. Wait, did she just? Yep, she's up on the table. What a little spider woman! What a ninja! Ugh, don't be so predictable. Ninja. Yeah, you're real creative. Raccoon? Very sneaky, eyes shielded in disguise. Cat burglar? Ooh, that's a bad knot there. How did Ma not find that one? Her name isn't really even Ma, dummy. Maybe you are racist. Shit, she's on the table again, this time perched on the side so she can work the left side of the back. How does she know to favor the left side? She's very intuitive, this one. Ugh, 'this one'? Really? Okay you need to take it down a notch. I wonder if Film Noir video has "White Dog" (Ed Note: CLICK THIS LINK!!!) on DVD? They have all the Criterion Collection stuff, they've probably got it. Okay, now she's on my right side. Damn, I've never had anyone really get into that... what are those muscles called? "Traps"? "Delts"? It feels good though. Time's up. I wonder if they do a little extra after the... ahhhh... buzzer, they, DO! Flip-flop-flip-flop very fast, hot towel, all finished.

It's better than Ma's; I admit it. And I took the Pepsi Challenge this afternoon to prove it.

On my way home, I ran into this girl who has a blog called "Babe City Babes", which is a blog of photos and commentary about guys she and her friend think are hot. I learned about her blog when I ran into her at an Easter party a few weeks ago (or whenever Easter was...) and she took my picture. I found out today, however, that they had already featured me on their blog a couple of months ago, and they don't like to do duplicates... so I went looking on the site for me. What I found made me laugh for roughly 10 minutes:

If this isn't the most quintessential, perfect, amazing photo of me, I don't know what is. Apparently I look hot when I have a confused look on my face, a four-pound bag of rabbit hay in my hand, and I'm standing on the corner in front of McDonald's, probably going to the bodega to buy a kombucha or vitacoco. Should you want to read the full commentary (which is hilarious), it's here.

Yo, much love Mina, you sneaky devil you. It's hard work being this much of a babe.

Does A.C. Slater Sit Backwards On The Toilet?

spare a square, Mr. B?

Test results are inconclusive. But Mario Lopez has aerobics instructor levels of spandex photos floating around on the internets, just waitin' to be downloaded by some retro, '80s-loving pervert/blogger with perpetual boredom/no social skills/insomnia/indigestion. I hate myself.

just another reason for self-loathing

The McDonald's in my neighborhood is open 24 hours on Friday and Saturday nights, which means two things: One, I have an even unhealthier option for late-night drunk snacks than going to the bodega for a bag of kettle chips, a beef patty (pictured above, except sliced open and stuffed with pepperjack cheese before being microwaved) and a large VitaCoco; and two, they must have some sort of policy in that vagrants are allowed to loiter overnight. Both of these scenarios — eating late-night QPCs and photographing hobos — are near and dear to my heart, but one is going to cause my heart to explode from joy, the other explode from cholesterol...

Behold number three, "Dream Team", in my ongoing series of Homeless People Trading Cards (and another), in which I capture the unsheltered citizens in my neighborhood in their natural environment, like a National Geographic special created by a mental patient with photoshop.

this was the happiest meal i've had in weeks...

For some reason, looking at this photo has me thinking about that song "Holidae Inn" by Chingy. (whatever happened to him? Is he working the front desk night shift at a Cleveland area Radisson?) I got to wondering just what his street cred was really like. What if Chingy was homeless when he wrote that song and it was sad and depressing, talking about trying to bathe at the McDonald's or like a (hot) Carl's Jr. or something on Friday and Saturday nights and dreaming of a hotel room, but then Snoop and Bishop Don "Magic" Juan wandered in for a McFlurry and Chingy recognized Snoop and spit a few rhymes for him, Bishop Don trying to preach to him about turning his life around but Snoop — ever the savvy businessman — knew that even though the current version was depressing and totally unmarketable, especially since homeless Chingy was using a window washer's squirt bottle as a "mic", he saw some real talent in that kid, thinking almost out loud "If this shizzle wasn't about some homeless nizzle, it'd be off the hizzle" (or something like that, I think his mouth was full of Butterfinger McFlurry at the time). I scoured the internet and found the "Lost Lyrics" to the original song, when his name was Squeegie, due to his famously streak-free skills washing car windows on Sunset.

But out of those humble beginnings, this star was born, so we must appreciate his unfortunate roots and poor penmanship/grammar/spelling and love Chingy for the man who produced this:

I need to go to bed, but before I do, single solitary reader-prisoner, I will announce that I am going straight up Nick Denton and expanding my publishing empire to two horrible blogs, the second of which I am hoping to launch maybe tomorrow but realistically more like later this week. It is called "Tuesdays With Maury", and the idea is to take the choicest screenshots from the two daily episodes of the Maury Povich Show and post them on a tumblr blog, and maybe even try to teach a life lesson or two in the process like Mitch Albom does in that book, allegedly. I have not, nor do I ever envision myself reading it. Here's another little teaser, a PR shot from the play that was made from the made-for-TV movie that was made from the book. Enjoy, or whathaveyooz.

there's so much maury can teach me if i just plug my nose and keep an open mind about the elderly

Coming Soon... more gloom

THIS IS TOP SECRET! MORE INFO COMING SOON! (maybe even as soon as tomorrow, as long as I don't get too drunk bowling Sunday and can actually function, which, judging by the people I am going bowling with, isn't likely to happen. So maybe Tuesday. Or Monday, depending on the hangover. Who cares? No one...)

TEASER MILEY CYRUS NIP SLIP PHOTO:

this is the extent of my abilities as a human being/adult — well, this and tying nooses, which i will be doing now for myself, after i get a slice of peperoni/sausage/homemade mozz from Italy Pizza, the best slice within 20 blocks of here, and then maybe take a nap. but then: much-deserved suicide.

I've already said too much (haven't said enough / that's me in the corner, crying alone to michael stipe lyrics)

The Hits Just Keep On Coming: Casey Casem Quote About Whitney Houston? (And Gremlins T-Shirt Design)

My fourth grade girlfriend played "I Will Always Love You" to me over the phone. You think she meant that? We broke up like two weeks later.

No, I am not writing about domestic violence between '80s power couples/disasters. It's a terrible thing that crack made Bobby whack Whitney. (One of "the unseen dangers of crack cocaine") Bobby was never a great musician, and adding crackhead and wife-beater to his resume did not improve his status, but I felt that this Osama Bin Laden comparison from bestweekever.tv was a little over the top. And for the record, there are few things bleaker than searching "beat up celebrities" on Google Images. Look at this screenshot, for example:

How did Elmo escape this poll? (Miley is winning.)

And how did they know I wanted to get dinner at Chili's tonight? Anyway, here's my big (crackpipe) hit of the day:

About a week ago I promised Gremlins T-shirts, and now I sit here before you (sweatpants on, wrapped in a Snuggie, bunny hiding under bed, life in shambles, trail mix crumbs likely stuck in beard) with a completed design. Behold, the Gremlins Care Label T-shirt (great name, huh?)...

Would you wear this? In public? I would/will/am. I don't know how much I am going to sell them for because I haven't decided on a printer yet. This could be because there are probably 13,000 screenprinters within a mile of me in Brooklyn. Also, I am trying to figure out how many to get printed for a "first-run", so either comment on this post or tell me on facebook (where lately, by the way, I have been "losing" "friends", hopefully because people have been disgusted by this blog, which was created to alienate everyone I know and permanently ruin my chances of corporate employment) or email me at chris [dot] f [dot] barry [at] gmail.com.

Speaking of corporate employment, this is a nice little motto:

Buy this here

I try not to burn bridges but I do believe this is a good perspective, in that there's something about it that shows forward movement and productivity. That being said, I once sent a long, convoluted e-mail to a boss that basically said, "Pay me more or I quit." At the time I had nothing to lose, because I was truly only interested in two scenarios: about 20-percent more money or 100-percent less work. Either way I was going to get what I wanted. My boss flew into town the next day to explain that although it was a well-written letter, the message it contained was one that a 22-year-old kid could not be allowed to give the chief operations officer of a large company. The next afternoon I was playing golf, jobless and happy. My friend from work kept the e-mail and I keep begging him to send it to me, but so far he hasn't. I want to read it so bad.

Anyway, back to my immature endeavors: Tell me if you would like to BUY MY SHIRT, BUY MY SHIRT, BUY MY SHIRT! (Any fans of The Critic out there/alive/not living in your parents' house at 32 years old?)

The Solution to Homelessness: A Study of Fame and Celebrity in America

In the quickly approaching two years that I have lived in Greenpoint, I've become enamored with the homeless, vagrant, drunk or — in the case of one very grumpy lady who wears vibrant, ornate hats, carries several stuffed grocery bags, wheels around a Samsonite suitcase and lives at the McDonald's — the strange fixtures of my neighborhood. They're as much my neighbors as anybody else around here, and their varying levels of public intoxication, odor and migration patterns make them that much more noticeable to me. Whereas I can go weeks without seeing friends who live mere blocks away, they're always on parade. Maybe it's because I'm more apt to notice a person who passed out on the street while eating a tin of Vienna sausages with a toothpick than my friend at the fruit stand buying bananas, but I don't think that makes me a bad person.

Anyway, it has me feeling somewhat friendly toward them. Like, I feel like saying "hi" when I pass them on the street. I haven't done it. (Actually, not true: I sorta mumbled "hey, okay" as the Herman Munster lookalike with PTSD recognized me from the coffee shop and said, "NO COFFEE, NO ICE CREAM, ONLY JELLO!", but I'm not sure that counts. Then he tucked his umbrella under his arm and searched through a garbage can.) But as I approach certain "stars" of the local transient street life, I can't help but feeling like I know them — and, even weirder, I get the feeling that they recognize me as one of the only people in the world who notices them. I know I'm not the only one who feels like this, because my favorite person and I have tossed around ideas about how to keep tabs on these real-life rock stars. Because that's what they are in a way: Rock stars. They rarely shower, drink copious amounts of cheap booze regardless of time or day, hang out wherever, do whatever they want, disregard the law, piss on the man, and generally don't give a damn about anything ... these old men make Keith Richards look like a choir boy. Okay, maybe that's just hyperbole, but the middle finger they give society is pretty damn "Exile on Main Street" sessions Rolling Stones, when they partied in that house in the south of France (while evading tax evasion charges in England) and wrote maybe the greatest album of all time.

One idea is an iPhone app called "BumTracker 2.0", basically a GPS-based system where app users could "tag" spots where they spotted a street-life star and note any fun activities/laws broken, so you could find your favorite urban urchin and track his (or her) movements. This idea is temporarily on the shelf due to lack of round one angel-investor backing and a lack of kickstarter donations.

But the idea that I really like is neighborhood-specific homeless people trading cards. Just like baseball cards, only better, and more relevant to daily life. Think about it: US Weekly, that celebrity-driven rag of a magazine prevalent in check-out aisles, has a national circulation of roughly 1.9 million copies per week so that people can compare their mundane, nose-picking and grocery-shopping boring lives with those of their celebrity counterparts. The section "Stars, They're Just Like Us", does exactly that.

Who the hell is Shanna Moakler? Oh, the ex-wife of a guy from Blink 182? Tell me more.

Look, I find it mildly entertaining to see a picture of anyone, let alone Russell Crowe, picking his nose, but I'd rather see action shots of a guy drooling on a bench than the Asian woman from Sideways wheeling her groceries out of a Ralph's Whole Foods. Plus it isn't like these celebrities are getting any money from these photos; instead, a bunch of acne-ridden masturbators with cameras make their living in LA from stalking. I want to make a few people laugh and "give the homeless the kind of change they can really use" (NYC PSA, you're welcome). So check it out: my prototype for "un-sheltered persons trading cards", in all its glory.

Believe it or not, they were jackhammering the pavement mere feet from this man who sleeps on the bench outside the coffee shop almost every day. Sometimes he is joined by his friend with bad posture, "Schlumpy."

Notice the tasteful thickness of the card stock. High-quality photo, name, team affiliation, primary position on the "field of life", right there on the front, just like a baseball card. I would like to transform the back of the cards to involve statistics, similar to those that would be on a baseball card. Stat categories could include: beers consumed, cans collected, average daily change collected, favorite places, etc. I don't know. Can you laugh at someone and help them at the same time? Can you sneeze and pee at the same time? Yes, but it hurts. Maybe that's the same as with these cards.