Massage Parlours and Blankets on a Lawn

I'm making out like the whole night was a big buzzkill...quite the opposite.

Soooooo... recently I made the mistake of telling my tennis pro about getting a massage at a "massage parlour" that just popped up in our neighborhood.  I should have left that image to his imagination, but on not ONE, but TWO occasions during what should be a typical middle aged clinic on a Tuesday at 1:00, turned into me SIMULATING said massage, only THIS time, Keith was ME, and IIIIII was the tiny Asian woman who accosted me on that FINE Sunday afternoon.

Allright, let's back up. I sometimes like to mess with people on Facebook at night when I am bored. (Not as much, anymore, considering how SENSITIVE everyone is) but from time to time I will post shit that entertains me, or make fun of people who I encounter on vacation, or whatever.  Who cares, right?  I ain't looking' fo' no JOB! Not yet, anyway. Still waiting to be discovered like a super model in an airport.  Where do all the literary scouts hang out?  Not blogger.com, apparently.

Aaanyway, a little bit ago I was avoiding my kids by going by myself to PIADA at 2:00 in the afternoon on a SUNDAY, and this sign caught my eye, as it had a hundred times before, when I was escaping my family to hang out by myself on a weekend.  

A new Asian Massage place had opened up in between the neighborhood toy store and deli at the twin strip mall beside Piada's. The shades are all drawn, and they have this cheesy banner announcing their new residence, flanked by Easy Living, this German delicatessan that makes my stomach turn, but my husband finds both nostalgic and delicious, and then there is like a BOUTIQUE toy store.

My neighbor and I were discussing it one day and he (this is second source, y'all, a source close to the subject) had been binging on Shameless as of late, and suggested that the "relaxing massage place" was run by Easy Living employees and they would run over in the middle of making sandwiches and give massages.

Which brings me to my SOURCE.

A professional writer NEVER reveals a source.

Not too long ago,  my source and I went to Louisville together to see The Lumineers.  The venue was amazing.  I was in my HOMETOWN,  and we had an absolute BALL!  It was fun to show someone I really care about where I grew up.  I don't get to do that very often anymore.

I kept telling my source that we needed to bring blankets because it was a grassy knoll type sitch, and the bitchy source ACTUALLY said to me, " I can't REMEMBER the last time I sat down at a concert."

And then we exited my Dad's car, cause he gave us a ride, natch, and it was a SEA of fucking  blankets and quilts creating a picturesque patchwork on the grassy knoll disappearing into the Ohio River.  I am talking LIT bridges in the background, and various boats docked in the bay to the right, all partying and listening to the free music.

"In MY opinion," I pointed out to the boats, addressing the source, "THAT is the best seat in the house.  And you were wrong about the blanket.  Big Time." I said for what would end up being forty-five times that evening.

The source then got us two vodkas a piece and we sat down on  a square of grass in between all the blankets and I bitched intermittently for a good 30 minutes about my drinks melting and the rash I was about to get.  Good times.

The venue boasted various food trucks and liquor stations at every turn. It was magical.  I can't wait to go back.

 I still bitched about the blanket whenever I could.  I would ask those of us around us what fabric their blanket was made of and if it felt good on the backs of their bare legs.  I was relentless.

Finally, the source tried to buy me a Lumineers blanket (that I was told I could also"drape over my couch" by the douchy couple behind us, which also admitted to "owning a blanket for  EVERY concert they had ever been to" because it was "their thing"), but they were SOLD OUT to every OTHER dumbass source that FORGOT theirs, OR needed another reminder on their furniture that they went to a concert.

SOOOO naturally I needed a massage after I got home from the Lumineers concert and my belly was full of Piada, sooooo I thought I would finally stake out our new bordello and, in turn, take the untraceable cash I had earned from my ticket sales from the concert (I had extra) to get an otherwise undocumented massage. Until now.

I'm exaggerating.  I had been super curious since they opened, boasting their "relaxion" when I was just trying get a birthday present for a kid that was having a party in 10 min.

At first, it was RECON work for Facebook, but then it turned into something DARK and UGLY, or SPONTANIOUS...AMAZING...and eventually, HABIT FORMING.

I went in and asked if they had any specials, like ANY investigative journalist would do.  The young girl at the podium deferred me to the madam, I mean, the proprietor. She showed me the price list which is published below.

I went back out to my car after taking the pic.  I sat there a full five minutes, I shit you not.  And then finally I was like, FUCK IT, I REALLY want a massage.

I go back in and I am matched up with a 60-year-old Asian lady.  I get necked.

Let me break this down for you.  You have a, I don't know, HAND towel covering your ass, and then the front when you flip over.  She totally manhandles you in the sense that there is no "comfort zone" type conversing, like you might get at a resort.  You just kinda do what she says and you hope that the place does not get raided while you are there.

This all sounds sexual, but it wasn't at all.  It was, um...how should I put it, both mortifying and gratifying at the same time.  Wait. That is sounding sexual again.  Being that we are in the throws of  another Fifty Shades moment and all.

It was a great massage without the pomp and circumstance of it all.  There was a plastic rose on my pillow when I first entered the room for Christ's sake.  There were no candles and you could hear the Lane Avenue traffic outside because YOU GUESSED IT - there was no music.  I'll just bring my earbuds next time, I thought to myself.

I went to a back alley massage, without having to lock my car with the freshly purchased kite and one of those stuffed animals with the big eyes in the front seat from the adjacent Toy Store, as my cover.  "See these presents, muthafuckas," I think to myself, the baby oil segregating the baby hairs into clumps at the nape of my neck as I get into my SUV, "that's my muthafuckin' ALIBI."

I've got layers of guidance today, y'all.  Check out CAAMP, the BAND.  It is not a new obsession of mine, but one that needs to be shared and appreciated. They are still relatively small so they go to really cool venues.
Click HERE: http://www.caamptheband.com  

They also have a Insta, so you can track them like I do, like the filthy cougar I am.  They are being billed as an "organic" band  (because they are just two guys that came together to write and perform really great music as opposed to be "manufactured" by the industry, I guess) and they have been on a serious tour of the South and the East Coast for the last six months with the equally cool Rainbow Kitten Surprise.  The next leg of their tour is West. Follow them any way you can.  They are worth it.  

Just give me street cred when they make it BIG!

And while I'm on the subject, make plans to sit on a lawn this summer, under the stars, while you listen to great music, but don't forget your blanket, or you will regret it, especially if you bring me.

Oh, and get a back alley massage, especially if you can find one in full view of the most popular pizza place in town.  Be sure to do it on a Sunday, too, when said pizza place has a line out the door.

And then post THIS to make it seem like the last hour never happened.

Just covering my tracks.