« February 2005 | Main | April 2005 »
March 31, 2005
A Purchase
Rob and Catherine are in a very different stage of life than I. They're married. Catherine has a job she likes and Rob is approaching the end of law school. They are the kind of people who can care for not one but two cats with only occasional need for emergency surgery.
Whenever I leave their house, I feel a little inadequate seeing as most of my long term relationships involve not another person, but a substantial quantity of alcohol or perhaps, a phalanx of short lived mice.
Still, they instill in me the hope that I too may have my life in control, at least in the view of a casual observer. As such, following in their footsteps, I recently purchased a label maker.
Rob and Catherine have developed a rather extensive filing system using the label maker. Looking for last years tax return? Filed. A map of the local state park? Filed. A particularly humorous cartoon from the New Yorker? Yep, it's in there.
I ordered mine, the Brother PT-65, from Amazon, and today it arrived. It was everything I hoped it would be.
Only a few minutes out of the box, the label maker was now helpfully labeled, "Label Maker" I understood immediately that this was perhaps contrary to the purpose of purchasing the machine, and so with only ten minutes of hard work, I managed to clarify what in the living room constituted the "Television," "Coffee Table," "Wall," and "Cat." When Kate ("Roommate") threatened to retaliate by labeling my mice ("Cat Food") I retreated to my clearly marked "Bedroom" and turned to my fresh pile of manila folders.
"Beer Labels" seemed like a good place to start, and, attesting to the usefulness of the organizational process, the mere act of making such a label reminded me of how long it had been since I had added to the collection -- literally hours. I took the opportunity to add another few samples. Next was "Dirty Limericks" and "Frisby, Pictures Of." I had just labeled my feet "Left" and "Right," my cup of "Tea, Hot," and the folder for "Manila Folders, Blank," when the machine ran out of tape. Apparently, the roll included was only a sample to make a tiny number of labels.
I spent the next hour and a half staring at the empty spool and wishing, beyond hope, that I had taken the opportunity to label this, useless though it now was, the inevitable remains of a misplaced enthusiasm for maturity.
Posted by Drew at 01:33 PM | Comments (55) | TrackBack
March 26, 2005
To Hell and Back: My Trip to Hot Springs, Arkansas
Oh, gentle readers! I am almost afraid to relate to you the chilling tale of the past two days. Aware as I am that most of you visit this site to escape the pointless tedium of your own existence, I worry lest I should burden you with more psychic baggage than you are already carrying around, most of you loaded already well past the breaking point. Nevertheless, the story of my journey to Hot Springs, Arkansas must be told if only as a cautionary tale to anyone so foolish as to approach this sordid town of perversion and despair. Children, get thee to bed! Ladies, avert your eyes! My narrative is not for the faint of heart!
Like any good gothic misadventure, it all started simply enough. After returning from the rainy, wonderful, expensive Bay Area where I visited with my brother Rob and sister-in-law Catherine, my so-called "friends" Hannah and Kelly invited me to stay with them in the sleepy mountain hamlet of Hot Springs.
Hot Springs is known throughout the civilized world as the boyhood home of one William Jefferson Clinton, the last occupant of the Oval Office to be able to tie his own shoes without assistance. "What a lark!" I thought. "Any town which produced Mr. Clinton must surely be good for a few days of harmless enjoyment." Oh, how wrong I was.
I arrived late Wednesday night. Thursday morning was balmy and clear, the pleasantness of the weather hiding the gathering horrors of the afternoon. We went for a hike. We ate some ice cream. We took a tour of a bath house.
"Bath house?" I hear you mutter. "I thought they shut those down in the late eighties. I'd better reread that Larry Kramer book." No, dear readers, it's not that kind of bath house. It's much, much worse.
Hot Springs, you may have reasoned, is named after hot mineral springs in the hills above town. In Iceland, geothermally heated water is used to provided inexpensive, ecologically responsible heat and energy for entire villages. In America it is collected and sold to the wealthy. Hot Springs developed a thriving economy by offering a full course of mineral baths to the idle rich beginning in the late 19th century, and by complimenting this regimen with a wide variety of casinos and whorehouses. Sadly, today, only the baths remain.
Kelly, a woman I up until this point considered to be of sound mind, insisted that we all sign up to take a bath. She had visited the baths before, and, foolishly, I agreed.
After a fine morning, we went to a hotel, the ornate lobby of which gave no hint of the horrors within. Upstairs we checked in and were each given a loffa, or handheld sponge/torture device. Hannah and Kelly were sent in one direction, I in the other.
I can not describe the facilities other than to say that One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest may well have been filmed on this very location. After being given an opportunity to review last year's issue of Psychology Today, I was greeted by my attendant, Matt, who told me to "take off your clothes and put on this towel."
I should pause here to explain that I may, perhaps, have some body image issues. "What?" you gasp. "How could you have body image issues? You don't weigh too much! You have the kind of physique anorexic super models can only dream of. Your skinny little chicken arms and sunken chest reveal you to be the post-college equivalent of a 98 pound . . ." And suddenly it all becomes clear.
After stripping down, I put on the towel, a kind of velcro skirt clearly designed for a man rather more rotund than myself. I was given a locker and a key on a rubber band, thus doubling the articles of "clothing" on my body. I was brought to a half filled bathtub in a semi-enclosed cubicle.
"Put your towel here and get in the tub," Matt said.
"Urp," I responded.
I try to be a "with-it" guy so into the tub I went. I did not expect, however, that my, when-in-Rome attitude would actually extend to being washed by a servant. Yes, there I lay, prone and naked in the bathtub as an elderly black man scrubbed my back and legs. I'm not sure exactly what kind of conversation is appropriate at time like this. Perhaps I should have inquired as to his life or family, but instead I opted for stunned, horrified silence.
My joy at the cessation of my washing can hardly be overstated. Matt told my to relax and that he would be back to get me in "fifteen to twenty minutes." He flipped the switch of an electric pump that shot water around the tub Jacuzzi style. I have no reason to believe that he would lie about such a thing as how long he would be gone, but I have to imagine that in reality I was left in the tub for a period closer to three or four hours. Luckily, I had plenty of things to do. For instance, I could wonder whether or not it was possible to redirect the jets away from my nether regions without managing to electrocute myself and thus meet death in the single more humiliating manner I can imagine. Oh, the pleasure!
Adding to the surrealism of the experience, the clock above the tub was, in a cruel twist of fate, broken, causing it to twitch meaningfully without actually moving forward. The effect was to increase the impression that all my sins had finally caught up with me and I was trapped in Hades for all eternity.
Eventually, Matt came to rescue me. I bound out of the tub and back into my towel with an intensity which seemed to frighten him. He asked if I had any "aches or pains."
"No, I don't," I shouted. "And I certainly don't need to be touched again!"
He proposed that I visit the sauna, and I accepted. For five minutes, I was blissfully alone and clothed. Sadly, my sweaty solitude could not last forever, and soon Matt was back telling me to lie on a "cooling board" and allow myself to be wrapped in a sheet. The sensation was, I imagine, something akin to what one would experience in a morgue, only without the sweet mercy of death. When the gentleman next to me told Matt he needed a few more minutes to cool down, I informed him that I, on the other hand, would be only too happy to move another step closer to my eventual release.
This was not a good idea.
The next step was to be a cool shower. To some of you this may seem like a relatively painless procedure, but that is only because you have never had to misfortune to experience the Edwardian torture device that is the "needle shower."
On our tour earlier in the day, we had seen a sample of this contraption: a shower surrounded with pipes, all of which shoot water at the body from a different angle. I remarked that it looked like the kind of shower enjoyed by Tim Burton, but Kelly assured me that it actually felt quite nice. In retrospect, one can only conclude that Kelly's level of masochism would turn the stomach of the Marquise de Sade himself.
Once out of my towel (again) I was forced into a stall in which ice cold needle of water were shot into my flesh with force enough to cut steel. Some parts of the body, in case you were wondering, do not enjoy being so violently assaulted, but the nightmare machine knows no mercy.
By the time Matt came to rescue me I was near tears. All I wanted was my pathetic, too big towel but that was obviously not an option. Instead I was greeted with one final, crowning indignity. I was directed to another bench, sat naked upon it, and hand dried. I managed to seize a nearby towel and began to wipe myself in a frantic and doomed effort to dry the rest of my body while Matt was still occupied with my hair and back. I failed, and as such learned that the two scariest words in the English language are "legs up."
When the last of my pride had been stripped away, I ran back to my locker, throwing my clothes on with scant regard to fronts and backs or even insides and outs. I had only two things on my mind: the presence of the hotel bar in the lobby and the vast, vast amount of alcohol I would have to consume before I could again look in a mirror.
Although I didn't really believe that the pleasure of getting drunk by oneself in the daytime would actually undo my bath house experience, I was determined give it my best effort. The bartender was extremely helpful in my attempt, and by the time Kelly and Hannah emerged from the elevator looking clean and relaxed I was passing the point of no return.
Visiting the baths was an experience that could politely be called "unique." I understand how, seventy five years ago, important men used to being waited upon could sit in the tubs, chomp on cigars, and conduct business with equally high power associates. Even now I know that plenty of people visit spas and get massages all the time. Perhaps that kind of pampering just isn't my style -- give me a comfortable chair and a good book any time -- but I think the baths of Hot Springs are a qualitatively different experience from a typical visit to a hot tub or masseuse. Never, the entire time I was there, did I feel I was getting the attention of a trained pseudo-medical professional: I felt like I was getting scrubbed down by a servant. Like a ride in a rickshaw, the experience may be worth having, but it's not one that can ever really be comfortable. Nor is it one I'm in a rush to repeat. At least, I don't think so.
The next morning, as I retched into the hotel room toilet, I had time to reconsider the entire ordeal. The nakedness, the scrubbing, the unfortunately placed jets. My head was pounding, my body ached and I thought that maybe, just maybe, the thing to do would be to have a nice long soak in the tub.
Posted by Drew at 11:29 PM | Comments (58) | TrackBack
March 23, 2005
In case you were wondering . . .
I'm in California and, hence, have better things to do than post on here. (I called my parents, so that's one third of my readership right there.) I'm heading back to Arkansas today but I'm going straight to Hot Springs with Hannah and Kelly (another third) to eat some food and enjoy a hot mineral bath.
Moral: no more updates until Friday. I'm sure that the spam producing robots posting on this site (the final third) will be mightily dissapointed.
Posted by Drew at 11:08 AM | Comments (59) | TrackBack
March 15, 2005
Coletrane Video
This one's for you, Dan.
Posted by Drew at 07:31 PM | Comments (55) | TrackBack
March 09, 2005
I'm only kind of a bad person . . .
You know, some blogs don't destroy the author's reputation in the eyes of the reader. I'll take a break from my bitching and moaning to point to this.
My good friend (and future Sesame Street star!) ZB Parker is doing an AIDS Walk in Houston.
Let me break this down for you:
AIDS = Bad!
ZB = Good!
Houston (or any city is Texas) = Bad! But not nearly as bad as AIDS!
Posted by Drew at 05:03 PM | Comments (44) | TrackBack
So how are you doing?
Just in case you were wondering, I am sick. I know this is why you visit this site: to hear me complain. Here goes.
I am sick. Not I'm-going-to-die sick, but at least too-sick-to-stop-shaking-and-watch-The-Simpsons [Ed. note - My codition has improved. I can now watch both The Simpsons and Sex and the City but not Anderson Cooper 360. What a crappy show.] I can feel every hair on my body and they all hurt. I slept for 15 hours yesterday (3:30 PM to 6:45 AM) and then went to school because, joy of joys!, it's Benchmark week. My students, being the merciless carnivores they are, choose to exploit my weakness at every opportity. Also, I got to wipe my nose all day on sandpaper grade paper towels which were clearly designed as a cruel practical joke as they absorb less than nothing, and, in fact, you would be better trying to dry your nose with a garden hose and then just slashing at your upper lip with a straigt razor.
Luckily, my mom used her Motherly Super Powers to sense my distress and call me. Sadly, she is in Florida, so I will have to prepare flat ginger ale all by myself. (No doubt I will somehow manage to burn it.)
[UPDATE - Hannah and Kelly: I was totally going to come sit in your kitchen this week. It was my BHAG. Sadly, like all my BHAGs, it was not to be. Perhaps tomorrow.]
Posted by Drew at 04:47 PM | Comments (57) | TrackBack
March 06, 2005
This is why I don't eat meat!
As Boing-boing put it, "No science fiction movie has ever had a machine as creepy as the E-Z Catch Harvester." It's true. There's no blood or guts in the video, just very surprised chickens being sucked into a giant chicken grabbing machine. What worries me is that this is the machine at peak performance. The people at this company think that it is not just normal, but desireable to make a giant, nightmarish chicken vacum and then publicize it on the web. Who knows what horrors may come when the cameras are off.
Posted by Drew at 09:51 AM | Comments (59) | TrackBack
March 01, 2005
Job Porn
It's come to my attention that I now read job postings with the same lust others apply to erotica. Sure, I don't really expect to be hired as the senior VP of Communications at the Folger, but neither do most guys think they'll actually have carnal relations with Terri Hatcher. It doesn't make it less fun to think about.
On the other hand, most Internet role playing doesn't include lines like, "And they'll match up to 8% of my salary in a 401(k) plan?! Yes! Yes! Yes!"
In class, I'm sometimes caught glassy-eyed and distant. Yes, it's true, men have an employment fantasy every eight seconds.
Posted by Drew at 10:00 PM | Comments (57) | TrackBack