Saturday a.m. I woke up still feeling what I will describe only as “the effects” of a party I went to the previous night, using such vague language a) so that you may use your imagination if you so desire and b) so as not to incriminate myself. An additional caveat: the party invitation made mention of “naked dancing girls,” of which I saw none, and suggested that one arrive wearing “ghetto boots,” a term which remains a mystery as everyone seemed to be wearing regular, every day, shoes unless I missed something. Lastly, I felt like my mojo, which has been on strike for a few months now, was acting like its carburetor’s been cleaned out (we’re talkin’ vintage 1967) and a new starter installed. I tried it out on three women and it was definitely a little rough, but later in the evening, when a fresh batch of women arrived, they got to experience a little bit of the well-tuned mojo on overdrive—and they loved it. Phone numbers were pressed into my hand as by turns they commented on how “cute,” “funny,” “fun,” “adorable,” “witty” my mojo is. I brag out of necessity. The return of the mojo was something I was beginning to doubt. Welcome back, friend.
I had a good night. Then, as stated, I woke up groggy, witless, with the certainty that I’d erred in partaking of certain party favors. But I wasn’t about to lose a whole Saturday to recuperation. Nope, I forced myself to run and run we did, getting lost somewhere between Land’s End and the Baker Beach stairs. Uh, yah. I’m not complaining. It’s just that I wasn’t really prepared for an eight mile run. Sure the fog in my brain cleared because it had to focus on the new stressors which I had chosen to introduce into the parameters of this American life, but when it was over with I had a new problem: how to make my seriously abused physical self feel wanted and loved. The solution: three-hours at Osento, mostly in the wet sauna … with brief interludes in the hot tub; a nude nap on the deck (warmed by the sun, cooled by the breeze); a frolic in the cold pool; a nap in the dry sauna….
And then I got a phone call from my Greek friend who was irate with me for not answering her calls earlier in the day. I explained that I’d been at the bathhouse. “For three hours?” she asked. “All the time you complain, complain, and you live la dolce vita!” I agreed to meet her, though by this time I was thoroughly exhausted. I tried defending myself when she found me at the bookstore with a copy of with an Edgar Cayce guide entitled Growing through Personal Crisis in my hands. I explained how I’d woken up stoned unimmaculate (your imagination has failed you so I’m helping you out now) and how I’d gone to the party without having dinner and I hadn’t had breakfast and I’d run for two hours nonstop because because because and she just repeated herself, “la dolce vita and all the time complaining.” The sweet life? Me? He he he.
Article comments
1 - Zenslinger
That piece made a believer out of me.