The massage after the adjustment sucked, though. The main masseuse, Lisa, is fabulous and I love her hands on me. Yum. When Lisa has me under her thumbs, my brain blissfully wanders to thinking of ways that I could possibly pay her back for such pleasure. Then it wanders to sex. Then it just wanders. Last night, however, was a Heidi night. We're talking extreme B-team talent here.

A) Her hands were cold;

B) She has no sense of gradual build-up, so she just digs right in;

C) That hurts;

D) I could feel that she was wearing a metal bracelet, which was constantly brushing against my skin;

E) Her movements are way too fast, like she's in a hurry to do as much as she can in the allotted 10 minutes instead of making it nice and relaxing;

Fa) It wasn't relaxing;

Fb) It wasn't nice;

G) I could feel her fingernails when she was trying to do deep-tissue stuff, as opposed to when a masseuse might scratch your back lightly for a refreshing effect and you're supposed to feel the fingernails;

H) Are you beginning to get my drift here?

On top of that, Heidi's massage room isn't well soundproofed (more like a really tall cubicle, 'cause one wall doesn't reach all the way to the ceiling), so I could hear every syllable of inane conversation going on in the waiting room. My massage turned into a battle, with my muscles bracing themselves for Heidi's next onslaught and Heidi probably digging in harder because my muscles were tensed.

My thoughts wandered to ways to kill Heidi. Boils. Blood. Frogs.

******

On that same evening, as I walked to the chiro office from the train station, I approached one of the gorgeous renovated houses along that street just as a Chinese mother and her teenage son were piling into their car. He had a rectangular case with him that I thought might be for a violin.

As I walked back to the train station after my appointment, I passed the same house and heard beautiful strains from the violin coming from within. I stopped and listened, enjoying the magic between the noise of passing cars that overwhelmed the music. Smoking. Feeling like an audial version of a peeping Tom. A listening Snake.

I wonder how many parents encourage their children to ways of making music without electronics now. I took banjo lessons in my early teens. Frankly, I stunk. I got no rhythm.

Fifty years from now, who will still know how to play a cello or an oboe or a harp�all the grand instruments that can't be played in a high school marching band? Will we still have marching bands?

Small tangent: They have parades downtown at the drop of a hat. The bands, and convertibles, and twirlers, and firetrucks all pass by right outside our building. I love that. When I hear the motors revving or the reverberations of percussion floating up from the street below, I grab my cigs and dash for the elevator bank.

****

Dinner last night: Deb made soup from our New Year's Day meal. Chicken broth, greens, chunks of pork (with the fat cut away), tomatoes, toasted sesame seeds, and Chinese mustard. I kinda hurt myself with the second helping. I must, must learn how to eat smaller portions of the good grub that comes my way so often.

Moving on - 12:11 p.m. , 2007-08-14

Where the hell have I been? - 12:10 p.m. , 2007-02-19

Holy shit! - 2:24 p.m. , 2006-01-11

Stuffing recipe - 6:17 p.m. , 2005-12-13

Good Life Update - 10:22 a.m. , 2005-11-11