Category: general

Where I put something when I’m too lazy to categorize it.

Posted on

still pooping taiwan

Put da needle on da rekkid...
Home is a good place to be. Even though I’m back around the same unfinished things that have been bugging me for months: the perennially unfinished backyard, the shower that needs new grout, the unpainted walls and unfurnished front room. Yes, it’s all here and all still calling to be completed. For the long term projects at least, it looks as if they’ll have to remain unfinished for the next month or so. Talking to Sharaun the other night, I realized that I’ll be away from work-proper for the entire month of May. Two and a half weeks in Taiwan again, then one day at home before leaving for another two days in Oregon, then a week off while my sister-in-law and her husband are in town. And poof! The month of May is gone.

When I was a kid, my cousin Nathan introduced me to U2 and Depeche Mode, funnily enough – he also introduced me to music in “compact disc” form at the same time. Anyway, I became a die hard Depeche Mode fan… collecting all the cassettes I could find at the local mall’s Camelot. Remember that “frequent buyers” card they’d stamp each time you bought a cassette? I think I got my Ah-Ha or Pet Shop Boys or Wang Chung tape that way, y’know, the 10th one is free or something. Yeah, my head was fried on tunes even at that age. Wow, I apologize for getting off track – but there’s something good about that – it’s writing for writing’s sake! It’s feeling free to follow my thoughts as I go. Back to the story. Today I was sitting around hacking up a bunch of MP3s with Audacity so I could import some nifty new ringtones into my phone, and I was browsing the collection for good songs to splice and dice. I fired up Depeche Mode’s Black Celebration and eventually came to the closer, “But Not Tonight.” I tell you, something incredibly meaningful from my youth is associated with this song. I can’t remember specifically what it is, but just the first few strains of the tune are enough to elicit chills and nearly stir up tears.

Ben and I were talking the other day about open source and free software, and how we’re all proud of our legal machines. However, and it sounds stupid now, I had never really thought about a piece of software that I use on all my machines, and the fact that it includes pirated warez. I’m talking about the K-Lite Codec Pack, which contains several key codecs for all sorts of file types. I use it for DivX and Xvid movies, and all sorts of other junk. Come to find out, it ain’t good y’all. So, I promptly uninstalled it and went looking for an open-source alternative. As usual, SourceForge did not disappoint, offering up the Gordian Knot Codec Pack, which contains everything I need. I am writing about codecs, what’s wrong with me?

For some more semi-tech talk, a couple things. First off, I think it’s totally awesome, and pioneering actually, that the Grateful Dead has started to sell their famous Dick’s Picks and From the Vault series of CDs as digital downloads. For years, the Dead allowed tapers to freely record their shows, offering special tickets for the tapers section. Free distribution of these recordings was also encouraged, although everyone knows that exchanging tunes for money is bad karma. Trading of tapes and eventually DATs or MDs was done in large tents at the show, where people were always in search of an upgrade to their favorite shows (because 10th generation tapes sound like ass compared to sweet, sweet binary cloning). Anyway, you can currently buy all the CDs in MP3 or the lossless, and open-source (again, pioneering) FLAC format. To me, this is the future of music: compressed, lossless online sales for reasonable prices. And when I say reasonable, I mean we get to subtract all the costs that go into a physical disc: manufacturing, packaging, transport, storage, etc. We pay for raw music, right off the soundboard or out of Pro Tools.

Soon, I think we’ll start to see more and more bands offer their music this way – at least, if their big corporate contracts have expired and they are free to do with their art what they will. I mean, who needs packaging? A sweet animated Flash experience or interactive online event is way more cool than glossy inserts. If you think about it for more than a little, you can actually visualize a world in which record labels and contracts are not nearly as important as they are now. At least, as a mode of distribution. Conceivably, you could record and “release” your efforts online without any middle-men. No contract, no percentage to someone else’s pocket. I realize that labels are currently still important as PR machines and the deep-pockets behind payola-funded radio play lists. But there is a hint here of a new paradigm in music publishing and distribution. Homogenized radio is dying, and digital music is reaching an adoption rate where Marketing 101 tells us it will begin to drive a secondary wave of goods and services. Perhaps, with good marketing and some initial investors, you could circumvent the majors altogether. Problem is: you gotta be good. The internet, the global audience, is the A&R man of the new century – we decide what’s good. Hey, I think we just cured another symptom of the majors. So, c’mon expired-contract open-minded artists… let’s do this thang.

And, because it fits really well here, considering the context – I’ve been busy listening to the new, and freshly-leaked, Nine Inch Nails album, which comes out in a few weeks. I like it. I like it more than that double album I bought in college and hardly listened to, and consequently can’t remember the name of right now. Anyway, some songs are very good, some are OK. Oh, and the contextually relevant bit of this rambling? Seems that Mr. Reznor has released one of the album’s tracks via the NIN website as a GarageBand2.0 file. What that means, essentially, is that he’s released the source multi-track recordings – just like a producer would get before mixing down a final track. He’s encouraging fans to “… create remixes, experiment, embellish or destroy what’s there.” What an awesome idea. At least there are some musicians out there who are embracing this age of everything-on-demand, no-secrets digital freedom.

On a completely unrelated note, caught this story via Slashdot over the weekend. The part that really caught my eye was the statement: “They even believe they are likely to find lost Christian gospels, the originals of which were written around the time of the earliest books of the New Testament.” Things like this always intrigue me, and I must admit that it’s not always for the most noble of reasons. Somewhere in me, I have this secret wish that some long-lost Christian writings would come up that really through a wrench into modern Christian dogma. No, I’m not rooting for some discovery that would completely deflate billions of peoples’ believes and values – I’m just talking about something that might force people who are staunchly set in their ways to think outside the box and perhaps view their religion in a different way. And I don’t mean things like the Dead Sea Scrolls or Nag Hammadi texts, which stubborn believers can easily write off as offshoot-group documents which simply aren’t part of the Biblical canon. With the whole process of canonization having effectively relegated any non-canon writings to irrelevance; something like an early version of on of the New Testament gospels, maybe on rife with all sorts of Gnostic ideas, would be an awesome rock in the pond. Some small evil imp in the back of my brain would really love to see some self-important, card-carrying Southern Baptist have to chew on a lost verse of John in which Jesus says, “Verily I say unto you, women can speak the word of God as well as a man.”

Holy crap this turned into a long entry… I hope I didn’t blow my week’s wad in one shot. Stay with me, we’ll see what we can come up with. Actually, I haven’t written an entry this easily in a long time, maybe my near week off last week did some good for my writer’s block or something.

Goodnight.

Posted on

the modern worker

Shiva.
12:20pm on Wednesday afternoon, and I’m right where I want to be for the rest of the day. At home, windows open, music on. Too bad I have to go back to work, that place really puts a damper on my days. I’m listening to a live version of a new Radiohead song that leaked the other day. Seems they’re back in the studio and working on long-player #7. I can’t deny that I consider them to be the most important musicians of the last 15 years, and I look forward to each of their releases with the utmost anticipation. I mean, what other outfit today could see a bootlegged live version of a single new song get a three-paragraph review? Despite my afternoon off yesterday, I still don’t feel right. I’m hoping it goes away soon, I don’t want to be sick and traveling. Yes – that’s right. I’m off for Taiwan yet again in just over a week. You know how I always dread going just before I’m supposed to go? I’m in that phase right now, I just plain don’t feel like going. Two weeks this time, ugh… I feel like I just got back from the last trip. Anyway, I am going, so I better get used to the idea.

Last night I crawled in bed a little after 11pm, and started thinking about how much I didn’t want to wake up and have to go to work the next day. Then, a sentence came to me. Then another. Soon enough, I had enough stuff to warrant me getting back up and out of bed to sit in front of the computer and write a paragraph. I finished it last night before midnight, and almost added it to yesterday’s post – but decided to keep it in case I didn’t feel like writing today. And then, here it is…

I am the modern American worker. I am the employee you hate to love. I complete all that is assigned to me. I foster relationships, work well in teams, and know my field. I will always do what is necessary to succeed. I am easy to get along with. I meet deadlines and assume responsibility. You can rely on me. Resources permitting, I will come through for you 100% of the time. I know how to prioritize. I know how to delegate. I can handle many complex tasks simultaneously without degrading the quality of my output. When you compare me to the checklist, I will meet or exceed all your criteria. Wanna know what else? I feel no sense of duty or loyalty towards my employer; only laziness and comfort keep me where I am. My interest in the company’s success extends only as deep as my desire for a continual paycheck. My work is not inspired. I do not aspire to climb ladders, keep paying me and I’ll stay here forever. I view my job as the necessary evil funding my real life. I say what you want to hear and do what you want done so that you will shut up. Every once in a while I will go above and beyond Joe Employee – but I don’t do this for the betterment of the company or for personal growth – I do this because I know those gold stars at the top of my review might earn me more money. If your goal is to see how much you can squeeze out of me without complaint, my goal is to determine the minimal amount of effort to likewise keep you complaint-free. I will always be like this. The more responsibility you pile on me, the more I’ll pretend to care – and we’ll all be happy. I will express completely insincere feelings so that you think I am one of the ones who “really cares.” I’m the modern American worker, it’s nice to meet you. You can shake my hand if you want, but I just took a piss and didn’t wash it.

I resisted touching that up from last night’s original midnight incarnation, so it’s 100% raw as-written. Looking back, it seems a little overboard and harsh – but I guess it makes its point.

I found this article fascinating. It’s long, but the author writes well and the subject is something I’m a tiny bit familiar with, working in the Indian-rich field of engineering. Once, a friend and co-worker of mine was taking vacation to head to India for his arranged marriage. He’d never even met the woman who’d be arranged for him, but had corresponded with her via phone or e-mail. He was not scared or nervous, but excited. I remember him telling me, “You should come to India for the wedding. I cannot pay for your plane ticket, but if you are able to come you will not have any other expenses. You can stay with my family, and all your food and lodging will be taken care of.” He told me he would be “honored” if I attended… and to be honest, I really considered going – it sounded like the experience of a lifetime. Too bad my pockets aren’t overflowing with money, or else I would’ve. Anyway, read the piece if you have time… good stuff.

Goodnight.

Posted on

newsworthy

Extra! Extra!
Good evening people. I’m finished with tonight’s entry early, and I’ve been feeling tired today so I think I’ll turn in early. Tomorrow I head over to the bay area for some customer visits, spend a night, and return late Wednesday. Should be a nice short jaunt, and I think it’ll be good to get out of the office for a while. Other than that, I recently added a season pass for the original Star Trek series to my TiVo. As if my TOS (TiVo-obligation syndrome) wasn’t a crippling enough affliction – I continue to pile on the time-wasting shows. Anyway, I love the original Star Trek, it’s so awesome. I have no idea why I’m writing about this. Here’s some more junk.

When I was a kid, I can remember my parents letting me listen to “my” music sometimes when we were on long trips in the Ford LTD. Thinking about that now, I don’t think I’m gonna be one of those parents. I mean, “my” music back that consisted mainly of bands like Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys, Ah-Ha, and the like. A far cry from my folks’ parental tastes for John Denver and Neil Diamond. Just thinking about them making that aural sacrifice and putting up with Casio-driven masterpieces like Speak and Spell really means a lot. Heck, Sharaun and I fight about what we’re going to listen to in the car on a regular basis. No sir, I’m afraid my kids are going to listen to whatever I’m listening to. Maybe by then they’ll have independent audio for each car occupant and this problem will resolve itself… but if not, my kids better learn to like Depeche Mode.

Am I the only one who doesn’t see the newsworthiness of this whole feeding-tube thing? Maybe I just don’t understand the long-term ramifications of the ruling, I’m willing to accept that. But this story has had top-billing in all major US news outlets for days now. There’s nothing more newsworthy going on in the world right now? Aren’t we still at war in Iraq? Doesn’t [insert country of choice here] have nukes? When I go to the BBC’s webpage, they have these stories. I wonder if American news is really as tunnel-visioned as it sometimes seems? Seems like we care more about car chases or the latest “amber alert” kid taken from an Alabama Wal Mart than the current state of world affairs. What, Iran refuses to stop weaponizing their supposedly fuel-grade radioactives? Who gives a crap, Demi might be pregnant with Ashton’s baby!! Tensions between China and Taiwan are higher than ever before? Booooring, did you hear about that kid in South Carolina who got suspended from middle school for wearing a confederate flag shirt?, I’m incredulous!

The other day the guest on the Daily Show was Tom Fenton, a former CBS news anchor who’s recently written a book about the what he sees as the sad state of news media in the United States. The interview was really interesting, and the following quote really says what I’m trying to get at here, so I’ll just go right to it:

I don’t think, at this time when our government tells us that there are people out there trying to blow us up or get their hands on radiological or biological or chemical weapons, that we can afford the luxury anymore of having a dumbed-down electorate.

Tom Fenton on the Daily Show

Of course, Stewart came back with the devil’s-advocate defense that the networks are just playing to the ratings and giving the dumb audiences what they want. Changing his voice and playing the role of some network news programming bigwig, he said something along the lines of, “If the people would rather see a truck on fire than what’s going on in Afghanistan, follow the truck!” Anyway, Fenton was a good sport – but I think the underlying message of the interview is pretty relevant. Especially since people are dying every day, and not because their feeding tubes are being debated in the Supreme Court. Well, I didn’t intend for this to become and anti-war thing, but while I’m here I might as well offer up one more bleeding-heart link. Thanks for listening.

And, thanks to the power of the internet – if you’re interested, you can actually watch the entire interview here.

With that, I’ll call it a night. Until tomorrow’s away-from-home entry, goodnight.

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around the 4-layer spiral

Watch out, we're coming to the crossover.
I set out to take this weekend slow. And what’s more, to make the most of it by waking early each day. My original plans were to finishing up planting the various flora and fauna we’d purchased but not completely installed last weekend. But some late-season rains put the brakes on that. The rain was nice tho, it was particularly heavy for California – with thunder and lightning which is a rarity here. Back in Florida, thunderstorms are a daily occurrence in the summer, so they tend to make me a bit nostalgiac.

Y’know, I’ve heard of anger management problems, and I don’t think I have one of those. I do think, however, that I have a frustration management problem. Sometimes, I get unbelievably frustrated – with everything. Today is one of those days. Usually, some small legitimate thing triggers the frustration… but from then on everything else just seems to get picked up and added to my big rolling snowball of irrational frustration. On days like today, everyone drives infinitely slow. Everywhere I am is just an obstacle that’s keeping me from where I want to be. Everything I’m doing is just a waste of time keeping me from getting to what I really want to be doing. I finally get to a point where I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin, then I realize I’m upset over nothing and just let it go. It’s usually right about then that have to use the bathroom and a stray pubic hair somehow gets plastered across my pee-hole and splits my normally manageable precision stream of urine into an un-aimable V shape consisting of two separate streams. It’s God’s little way of telling you to give up. Yeah, I definitely have a frustration management problem.

I haven’t talked music in a while. Maybe that’s because the latest records stacked on my multi-platter arm are somewhat well known to begin with. It seems that either the collective ears’ of America’s youth are finally responding to the weekly subliminal indie dosing they get from the OC, or I’m simply experiencing a loss of power to my commercial-acceptance shields. But you gotta admit, the recent explosion of MTV2-phyllic new-new-wave rock acts really do have an addictive sound. And with that in mind, I was pretty pumped that Sharaun and I managed to score a bunch of tickets to a local small-club show by one of the aforementioned aforenamedcoattail-riders, the Bravery, that’ll be going down next week. With their album in-hand I’m really looking forward to it. Aside from the best the “new alternative” stable has to offer, I’ve recently acquired the latest Ben Folds album, as well as the new Stephen Malkmus joint. Both are worth investigating if the Killers and their extended family-tree are beginning to wear on you.

Work on the digital migration project continues. I’m halfway through Lennon, and have started my first real attempt to cross-check what I’ve ripped with the complete database of what I own. The goal is to find holes in the ripping, and make dang sure everything I own is digitized before I start selling off the then-redundant discs. When I started all this, I actually printed out a copy of my database and highlighted each album as I ripped and verified it, sometimes making notes if something was notable. But the whole effort has dragged on so long that I’ve not only lost track of what I was doing, I’ve lost the printout. So now I’ve got this folder full of music and no real way to check it against what I own. But, with a little creative manipulation of the DOS ‘tree’ command, and some fancy cutting/pasting tricks – I managed to get a side-by-side list of my collection and what’s already been ripped to the drive. I’d like to thank OpenOffice 2.0 beta for most of my data manipulation and srpreadsheeting, if you haven’t yet – check it out.

Speaking of software – having the right tools has played a large part in my willingness to pick up this project again. Ripping discs is not so bad when they’re all commercially available and the ripping program can look them up in freedb to get all the track names. But bootlegs, transfers from vinyl, and other rare/odd discs just won’t freedb – meaning the only option is to type all the information in by hand. I recently downloaded a couple more utilities that have proved perfect for the task of tagging those pesky non-freebd-able albums. Moosic Organizer lets you actually search the freedb site and manually apply an album to one that won’t lookup on its own. And MP3 Book Helper has an “import from CSV file” feature, which allows me to copy a bootleg’s tracklist off any website into a spreadsheet, save it as a CSV file, and tag the album in one-click that way. Sure beats typing every track in by hand.

Finally got around to watching Ray tonight, great movie. Watching some of those club scenes was really powerful. Seeing greasy, sweaty, hard-working musicians pouring their every ounce into their instruments… it reminds me of the feeling I got the first time I heard Otis Redding’s set at the Monterey Pop Festival. Kyle brought over a tape his dad had made. Side A was Wilson Pickett; side B was Otis. Some was live, some was studio, and it was my first real chance to actually “listen” to soul music. On that day, we had decided to pretend we were kids again – and had broken out our old slot car tracks. His track was compatible with mine, so he brought over his cars and track, and we pieced together a massive circuit that sprawled and twisted its way around the floor of my bedroom. We must have listened to that tape three or four times through as we gunned our little cars on to victory. Up the side of the bottom bunk along vertical U-turn, around the 4-layer spiral, down the extended straightaway and into the hairpin around the closet door. For some reason that memory stuck with me, the four speakers I’d arranged in each corner as a mock quad setup blasting Try A Little Tenderness over the clicks and clacks of little cars moving from section to section on the track. Some things I think you’re just supposed to remember.

Goodnight.

Posted on

ivy walls

Not the bull kind.
Yesterday I had a 6:30am meeting. I also had a 5pm meeting. I finally quit working around 10:30pm. When the first thing you say to your wife when you climb into bed is, “How was your day?,” you know you’ve been a little too focused on work. Needless to say I didn’t feel much like writing. Being busy like this is really taking a toll on the page… but I will maintain… I will persevere. So, with my eyes on the prize, I boldly march forward into today’s entry.

Just because a fellow decides to buy a bike and ride it to work some days instead of driving, does that mean you need to ask him every day if he rode his bike? It’s an unexpected side-effect of my decision: guilt. I know that, every day when she gets home, Sharaun is going to ask me if I rode my bike to work. And every day I don’t ride my bike to work, I feel the guilt as I back the truck out of the garage; my bike still hanging from its hook in the rafters. You people who ask me if I rode, I’ve got your number. I’m convinced you’re not just asking me if I rode my bike on that particular day. Nay, you are charging me under the cloak of curiosity, silently indicting me! “Did you ride today” translates to “I know you didn’t ride your bike today, you lazy bum. Now admit as much out loud before the world and God, and be ashamed of your sloth.” I know, I’m perceptive.

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned before that Sharaun is a teacher, but… Sharaun’s a teacher. OK, now that I’ve established that… wait, what did I establish again… that’s right, Sharaun’s a teacher – you get an A. Anyway, she often grades papers in the evening. As much as this sucks for her, to be working in the evenings, sometimes it can be fun…. those times are mostly the times when we sit around and make fun of the answers some of her kids come up with. And, after careful consideration of the ethical principles involved, I decided to post some of the brightest gems from tonight’s papers. This lesson was on “Aryans Bringing Change to India,” and below is a sampling of some of our favorite answers from her 6th grade class, original spelling and grammar intact. All these kids got Fs… my wife is brutal.

Question: Where did the Aryans come from? Where did they migrate to?

Answer: They migrated to the Black and Caspian Seas.
(Really? They migrated to the sea?)

Answer: They came from Black Sea and Caspian Sea, and they went southward Indo-Europeans.
(They came from the sea… and they… huh?)

Answer: The Aryans came from Europe and Western Asia. They migrate took over a hundreds of years ago.
(Ohhh… that first sentence was so dead on. The Ritalin must’ve worn off before the second one though.)

Answer: India came from hometown, and went to Europe.
(I don’t even… know how to… what!?)

Question: How did the Aryan migrations effect civilization in India?

Answer: It effected them by drying up the crops.
(Migration dried up the crops. OK.)

Answer: They just too over and too over they’re land with out them knowing and just mess up everything.
(Can’t even comment… laughing.)

Question: If you had been a Brahman in early Indian society, how might you have felt about the teachings of Buddha? How might you have felt about his teachings if you had been an untouchable?

Answer: I would’ve felt interesting and happy. If I were an untouchable I would feel like crying into tears becan he’s telling us to keep our head up.
(The phrase “crying into tears” is outstanding.)

Answer: I will have felt confused because it’s bad that they were doing those things and doing things unknown. Probuly helpful in a way because they were keeping they’re country clean in away.
(Say what?)

I’d like to thank her for her help with today’s entry. Goodnight.

Posted on

tired of writing

Get it?
What? I didn’t write last night because I didn’t feel like writing… that’s all. I don’t do that much, I’ve pretty much always got a paragraph or two in me. And, in fact, I did write a little last night – some rambling pointless paragraph about the weight of a US banknote and how much a million dollars would weigh in different denominations. Don’t ask, I have no idea. Maybe I’ll tack it onto the end of this one for a lark… I’m not gonna be able to use it otherwise. Right now though, I’ve got that don’t-wanna-write feeling again.

This morning, as I was dressing myself for the day (I can do it!), I went to grab my sneakers. Unlike some, I’m not really a snob when it comes to shoes. Sharaun usually buys me season-old Nikes at some discount store, and I’m happy with them. I don’t jog, or play sports, or really give my sneakers any workout beyond mowing the lawn – so I don’t demand much from my shoes. Usually, I get some generic looking white and blue Nikes. But when I went to grab my sneakers this morning, I noticed that the inside fabric on one was blue, while it was white on the other. Thinking it strange that I’d never noticed the dichotomy before – I took a closer look. Guess what? I guess my old pair of generic looking white and blue Nikes looked a lot like my current pair of generic looking blue and white Nikes. And – I’ve been wearing the left shoe of one pair with the right shoe of another for, oh, what must be a couple weeks now. That’s right people, I’ve been wearing two different shoes for weeks, and haven’t even noticed. I have no fashion.

Nobody can tell a brother?

Weekend time.

Posted on

the bonecrusher

Death-grip.
Two days of wearing shorts, and the miniskirt fields over near the high school are in full bloom – summer is coming y’all. I’m done with this entry early, because the words just came. It’s hard to believe I wanted to write one story. One story; and out comes 10 paragraphs. It’s kinda good though, now I can concentrate on other things. Enjoy.

I realized I forgot to mention my massage experience from my last trip to Taiwan. Let’s set the scene: In Taiwan, massages are cheap. You can get an hour-long full body massage for $15. Every time I go, nearly everyone I’m with gets a massage. Not me, however. I’ve never been one for massages. I just don’t enjoy them. Mostly because I’m self-conscious of my neanderthal-reminiscent body hair, but also because being cursed with that very hair makes massages physically painful. Lemme try and break it down for the follicly challenged: you ever wear dress socks all day, and when you pull them off at night your leg hair is sore, painful to the touch? That’s what a massage feels like to me, with all the rubbing and pulling… you can have it. So, when everyone I’m with decides it’s massage time, I always sit it out. This time, however, Wayne somehow managed to convince me to go with him.

Against my better judgment, I walked into the massage place with Wayne. We both asked for hour massages. They escorted us back to a room with three chairs, and left little shrink-wrapped packets of clothes for us to change into. The pajama-like outfits are supposed to be loose-fitting and comfortable, and they even have a pair of slippers so you can take off your shoes. However, what is loose-fitting and comfortable to Joe Taiwan is Chinese-finger-trap tight and ridiculous looking on me. Already discouraged, I asked for a “bigger” set of jammies, and reluctantly disrobed. The slippers barely encompassed my big toe, so I just went barefoot. Sufficiently pre-humiliated, I was ready for my massage. About then, two women entered the room with some hot tea. Wayne’s masseuse was young and attractive, mine was (of course) old and not-attractive. With everything having gone so swimmingly thus far, I was ready.

My masseuse instructed me to lay down on my stomach on this reclined chair. I removed my shirt when she motioned, and listened as she and Wayne’s young masseuse exchanged some words in Mandarin (too bad I don’t know the Chinese word for “hair,” because I’m sure that was the topic of discussion). After I removed my shirt, my masseuse proceeded to roll down my little pajama pants, high-school cheerleader style, until I could feel the breeze waft across the top inch or so of my buttcrack. She then started layering hot towels on top of me. Not just one, not just two, she fully covered my entire body in steaming hot towels – until it was literally four or five stacked towels deep. Now, if you know me – you know I have a heat problem to begin with. I hate hot. I hate it so bad. So here I am, sweating like I’m in a sauna, what must be 30lbs of hot, wet towels heaped on my back… for me, it was the Taiwanese massage equivalent of the Medieval torture where they stack stones on a man’s chest until he suffocates. To make it worse, when I glanced over at Wayne his nubile young masseuse was busy giving his towel-less neck and shoulders what looked like a killer workout.

After 10 or so minutes of sweating under the steaming mass of terry, during which my masseuse completely left the room, I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever actually get a massage at all. Soon enough though, my lady came back, removed the towels, and started digging her elbows into my back in a most painful manner. I just kept sitting there thinking, “Why the hell am I paying for this?” After removing the towels, she started in on my arms and legs. I think my lady may have studied medicine at some point, because she seemed to have a great knack at locating my tendons – and then grinding at them with her vice-grip hands. I swear she could crush rocks with those hams. Every minute of the experience was torture, at several points I was seconds away from crying out “uncle!” and being done with the entire thing. When I could catch a glimpse of Wayne, meanwhile, it looked as if he were about to doze off to pleasant dreams.

Just as my patience was waning, my masseuse eased up a bit. Little did I know, she was just switching gears. With the 20/20 vision of hindsight, I now realize that she was simply entering the 3rd and final phase of her sadistic plan to break me. Phase 1 was the hot-towel iron maiden, cunningly designed to attack my temperature weakness and strong aversion to perspiration. Phase 2 was the targeted stimulation of every pain-generating pressure point on my arms and legs. Phase 3, as I was about to learn, involved several NGEs (near-genitalia experiences) and an unwanted cavity penetration. Her bonecrushing force somewhat lessened, my lady now started greasing me up with lotion and doing a gentle rub down. For a normal person, I’m sure this might actually feel good. For the manly (read: hair-covered), it’s akin to combing your quaff with bubblegum. However, as innocent as the rub down seemed… it was soon about to get a little iffy.

First, a pertinent aside: In Taiwan… you have to be careful just which massage place you go into. If you are really just looking for a massage, it’s best to ask the locals where a “legit” massage place is. Although, I sometimes get the impression that a place is “legit” only until sufficient money is on the table. Anyway, Wayne and I had made sure we were patronizing a “legit” massage place – just to have that level of comfort in knowing what lay ahead. Having been advised the place was on the up-and-up, I didn’t really have any problems when my lady’s hands started reaching higher and higher into my inner thigh with each rub. “All part of the job,” I thought, “Nothing out of the ordinary here.” So it tickles a bit, that skin is sensitive in there! Soon, I started to doubt my assurances… but I refused to flinch – even as her finger quickly brushed my nut as if to test my resolve. I would maintain. I would not give her the satisfaction of reacting. And before I knew it, I was left bewildered, but not necessarily uneasy; and the inner-thigh portion of the massage was over.

But the ass portion… the ass portion had yet to begin.

I’ll need you to remember from above that, somewhere near the beginning of this, the hour that lasted a year, my masseuse had rolled down my knee-length pajama pants at the waist – exposing the neon whiteness that is the top few inches of my buttocks. Right, on we go then. The lower-back massage started with another handful of lotion. Things were OK to begin with, but once again… with each massaging motion this woman’s hands delved deeper and deeper into the albino jungle. And people… this is it; this is the reason I wrote all these paragraphs with all these funny metaphors or similes or whatever they are. For this next sentence, and for it alone. Then, to my utter surprise, my masseuse began massaging the inside of my asscrack. I’m being for real here. She had both hands, karate-chop sideways, inserted fully between my cheeks – and was making some kind of “sawing” motion while pressing outward. I couldn’t believe that this woman was willing to put her bare hands into my ass for a percentage of $15.

As I lay in disbelief, my masseuse began wiping the excess lotion off my body with clean, damp white towels. The same type of towels which, then piping hot, she had previously heaped on me to a gravity-defying height of approximately 4 vertical feet. And lest you think she neglected to towel the lotion leavings from my nether regions, rest assured. She most definitely dragged the towel down the length of my crack, a couple times. The white towel; in my ass. Read back a few sentences. OK, you see what I’m getting at? The same white towels which she stacked on me earlier. I just sat there wondering whose ass my hot towels had been used to clean before they were piled on me. How many asses had this woman’s bare hands been in that day alone? To my credit, I masked all this inner turmoil extremely well. To the casual observer, I must have appeared the practiced massage recipient… taking each increasingly absurd phase in relaxed stride. I was a rock.

Now, maybe it’s just me – but I can’t always guarantee the cleanliness of my ass. Sure, I wipe, I take care of myself, I’m hygienic. But if I know there’s going to be a situation when my ass may be exposed, I’ll put a little extra effort into sprucing it up. Any other time – you’re playing a risky game of Russian Roulette down there. I mean, a brother can only do so much. If he’s been walking around in the city heat all day long with nary a bathroom in which to perform a “sanitary check,” there’s only so much he can promise you. Bottom line: You just don’t go butt-spelunking without giving a man notice… you just don’t.

After we re-dressed, paid, left the building, started walking way, and I’d safely tucked my shame away in the corner of my mind – I got up the nerve to ask Wayne if he’d been similarly violated. “What?!,” he asked, “She massaged your asscrack?” Dang, and I was hoping we could form our own two-person support group and share a tearful shuddering hug in remembrance. Looks like I’ll be all alone back in the hotel room where only the tiny bottle of Jack Daniels from the minibar can hear my sobs. Later on, I did mention to Wayne that I felt a little “looser” than usual, which was the truth – but sweet Lord it wasn’t worth it. This is one thing I shoulda stuck with my gut on – I’m not built for massage.

Goodnight.