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.