Where's The Hot Oil?
Every time I go to the Wash-O-Rama, without fail, I run into musicians I know. Last week, it was Josh from Dharmachine and Bryan Hurst (without the Lolligaggers, I think). Personally, I enjoy the Laundromat experience. It's fun to observe what kind of last resort clothes people are wearing. Naturally, worn rips are strategically fashionable, plaids and stripes become compatible and proper sizing is no longer an issue. It's sort of a vulnerable experience, the Laundromat. For two hours, you're at the mercy of the vibrating machines, no exceptions. Once the clothes go in, you wait, just like everyone else. No socio-economical barriers here. We're all equal. Well, unless you didn't bring your own supplies and have to use the nasty powders they sell on the wall. Then I feel kind of sorry for you. Sometimes I'll even jump to the rescue when I see someone about to deposit quarters, offering my Fab, a simple gesture of good will.
Oh, and I love the sound of coins gushing from the changer. Makes me feel kinda pumped up.
My last few trips to the Laundromat have been more like pilgrimages. A stuffed army duffel bag on my back balanced by two huge garbage bags in my hands gave an effect of skiing, rather than walking, down Bardstown Road. Procrastination can indeed be heavy!
I don't know if it was the duffel bag packing or the nightly equipment toting, but at some point I realized I had an achy back. So, I decided to go to someone. Yeah, someone who I could pay fifty bucks to let me get naked and then rub me down with hot oil, while listening to soothing music . . . Sore back would disappear! I got a referral and walked to my appointment on Frankfort Avenue. It seemed necessary to walk because I had eaten an entire bag of cheddar cheese Ruffles the night before. I just didn't realize it would be an hour-and-a-half walk in 11 degree weather, until it was too late to make other arrangements.
Within five minutes, Sally had identified part of my problem. I don't sit correctly. While many people sit on their tailbones, we're supposed to be sitting on our "issue bones." Even if you're slumping, you should be sitting on the two bones on the bottom of your butt, so as not to cut off neurological responses to the brain. Sally theorizes that is one reason why there is so much violence - too many people not sitting on their issue bones, prohibiting clear and balanced thought. Well, that and the overabundance of communication transmissions cluttering our brains.
Sally is not only a masseuse, but also uses acupressure, cranial fluid dynamics, relaxation/meditation techniques and more to help bring health to her clients. She has lots of certificates on her wall as well as an M.A. in Health Education and Movement Studies. This is one educated lady, so we better listen up and start sittin' right! What comes to mind for me are the zillions of videos containing street violence themed songs or raps. You never see the main artist (usually a dude) sitting correctly. Think about it.
During the next hour, Sally went where my body led her. I wish my body had told her to give me a massage, but apparently it had other ideas. She pushed on pressure points till they hurt like hell. But that's supposed to be a good thing. She relieved tension from my sacrum, or "holy bones." She rechanneled my cranial-sacral fluids somehow or another, causing me to later be in a weird mood. She also kinda made a leg grow an inch or so, and now my striped leggings fit correctly, not with one pant leg higher than the other. I didn't ask, but I sensed she cleansed my chakras.
After all was done, as I said, I got a little weird. She thought I was mad at her, but I assured her I was not. Perhaps she opened up some emotion, perhaps I was just tired from the hour and a half walk, I dunno.
I heard a friend of mine telling someone that I'd "blown money on a voodoo doctor" and I shake my head to that. Whatever happened on that massage table put me into a deep coma-like state from 9 p.m. until 9 a.m. And I never get up at 9 a.m. Right after the appointment, I went to Tumbleweed. For the first time in my life, I ordered non-Mexican. Steak. That was telling.
Breathe deep. Square off, suck it in, up, let it go, out of the top of your head to the heavens.
And don't forget to call/email me with your band/Mid-City info!
485 -1989 / email@example.com