the ocean

Every year, Ian gets me a gift certificate to a massage place for my birthday. It's a really thoughtful gift, as I enjoy getting massages but rarely actually get motivated to schedule them. And since I am terrible at relaxing, it's nice to be forced to lie in a darkened room where I can't check my email or text messages for a while. I've actually even fallen asleep during the massage a few times. And if I can pass out without the aid of alcohol when I'm nude in a small room with a stranger who is in an excellent position to strangle me if he so desires, that's really saying something. 

I do have some small quibbles with some massage "techniques," however. First, telling a person over and over again that they need to relax has never, ever caused that person to actually do so. I personally tense up to the approximate rigidity of a two by four when I hear that. Second, your assignment is massage; any comments about, say, my diet, my medications, or my overall lifestyle are outside the scope of that. Third, I do not think elbows should enter the massage equation. They are universally pointy. And finally, I can tell time. If you want to rip me off by ending early, that's your prerogative, but don't act like I'm not going to notice. 

Anyway, that's a lot of thoughts about something fairly unimportant. Next time I'll write up a thorough plan for passing comprehensive immigration reform, I promise. 

The Olympics are here again, which I love because now I can indulge both jingoism and my love of dramatic personal backstories. It may well be that people who are not naturalized U.S. citizens have some sort of athletic ability, but I don't need to know about it, and NBC is certainly not going to let me. But they will make sure I'm aware of every asthma attack, cold and distant parent, and third grade election loss of each and every American headed to South Korea for the games. It's perfect, because I'm a busy man, and don't have time to make my rooting decisions based on a nuanced understanding of facts and circumstances. Show me a flag and I'm all set.

In all seriousness, though, I do enjoy the Olympics. I think it's mainly because by and large these are not sports or athletes we'll be seeing the other three years and 341 days of any given four-year period. I like relearning the rules of curling each time, only to have it gently lull me to sleep within twenty minutes. I'm genuinely blown away by the abilities of all the people on snowboards and skis who fly through the air, generally intentionally, in dozens of different ways, even if I somehow can't manage to bother to watch them any other time. And I love that sports that aren't just knocking into people or barging past them are actually getting a little bit of attention, even if I know it won't last. It's a nice change of pace.

Of course, I'll also be fine when it's over, because I manage to feel guilty about how much of it I'm missing, just as I do with just about everything. If only I could quit my job and just watch TV all the time. Said everyone always. Ah, what a land we live in.

I was in Los Angeles for work all week. It's always weird being anywhere solely for work, because the character of a city seldom lies in its conference rooms and airport lounges. But I actually do enjoy those aspects of LA -- walking to work in 80 degree weather in January is fine by me, and unlike at, say, O'Hare, you won't find 15 people gathered around a single charging station. And my hotel room this time was straight up amazing, as the Intercontinental gave me a free upgrade to a huge suite with a giant, comfy leather couch and windows and balconies the whole way around. That must be how social media influencers feel all the time.

Anyway, I saw very little of LA, unless you count the "upscale" food court at the Westfield Century City mall, which has like two places you can get poke but not an actual sandwich shop. I did have one free night, which I decided to spend making a series of weird unforced errors. I saw that there was one museum that had evening hours, so I took a cab there, only to find that most of the exhibits were closed, such that I saw pretty much everything in 45 minutes. Then I decided to walk back to my hotel so I could "see more of the city," but somehow took a route that exposed me only to dingy-looking Indian restaurants and sad squat office buildings. Also I got a giant blister on my foot. So yeah, next time I'm just going to one of the Vanderpump restaurants, even if that will just mean me eating goat cheese balls by myself while checking my phone and wishing Ariana were there.

So I was gone and I'm back. Pretty impressive, right?