misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

My trip to Maui was my first-ever attempt at a wellness vacation (not to be confused for a Loch Ness vacation). I've fantasized about such a vacation since I was 19-years-old, sleeping in the cramped passenger seat of Hector's Nissan Pulsar, penniless after a rough night at Reno's Silver Legacy Casino, unable to afford a motel room or warm breakfast. From then, I trudged through the typical trips of a college kid and, later, a twenty-something: maintaining drunkenness for as many days as possible without sleep, eating daily meals at Carl's Jr., sleeping with six grown men in the cheapest available room, farting, waking up hung over to start drinking again. Now, without mistake, these trips were fun, but they certainly weren't beneficial to my overall mental or physical health. As I aged, and life inevitably became more .. complex, the need for a true vacation (vs. a trip) became more pressing. Vacation, by definition, means escaping the routine of home. For many people who do not live in a city (and whose day-to-day home life is a tad more responsible than mine), a vacation means drinking, staying up late, and going to expensive dinners. However, I do this every day at home, so my vacations are only different if I eat vegetables, use treadmills, and go to bed before 3 am. For a variety of reasons, I've never been able to take a vacation like that.

Until Maui.

To the backdrop of volcanic air and tropical birds, I ran in the morning. I ate yogurt and fruit for breakfast, fish for lunch, Round Table Pizza for dinner. I went to sleep around 9 PM. I never drank enough for a hangover (ok I'm exaggerating that point a bit for affect but please allow it for the overall structure of my story). And, as the ultimate mark of a wellness vacation, on my final night I reserved a 50-minute Heavenly massage at the Westin Spa. At a $150 dollar charge, this was exactly the kind of experience I'd dreamed of so many days ago. It was grown up and relaxing and would recharge my soul. By Heavenly, I fully expected I would be set on the wings of an angel while a batch of cloud-virgins danced upon my back with feet made of mist and childish joy.

Moments upon arriving at the beach-front parlor, the concierge brought me into a plush locker room, where I changed into the acupuncture sandals and expensive robe. She told me to spend ten minutes unwinding before the massage: Enjoy some pineapple-infused water. Loosen up in the steam room. Shower in the dual-headed stone showers. Try the exotic fragrances and lotions. Shave. Listen to music. Relax, relax, relax.

When ready, I was to go into the waiting room where my masseuse would come for me.

After ten minutes, I had achieved the calm preparation needed to enjoy my massage.

I nearly made it out to the waiting room, before realizing my boxers were still on underneath my robe. Hmmm. My inexperience was showing: Do you leave your boxers on during a full body massage? Or are you naked? What if you are supposed to be naked and then the female masseuse says, "Um, douche bag, your danky boxers are on?" But then again, what if you are naked and she says, "You pig! This isn't a fucking whore house!"

I was paralyzed by indecision. This was critical. Fuck! How could I be so clueless at 33-years-old? Do you take your boxers off during a massage? Or leave them on? Where are all of your fuckers when I need you (by "fuckers" i lovingly mean the two of you who still read my blog, Kohli and Kenta)

After five minutes of doubt, I decided to compromise. I would keep my boxers on, covered by the robe, until I reaching the massage room itself. At that point, I would evaluate the situation and make the final call.

Within seconds of stepping into the waiting room, a thirty-year-old woman clothed in all-white entered and ushered me up a set of stairs and down a hallway. She brought me into a small, gently-lit room filled with sounds of meditative music (basically a flute and bagpipe playing at 1/4 tempo). In the center of the room was a massage table covered in five layers of crisp white sheets. She told me to get undressed and get under the covers.

"I'll wait outside", she said, "and knock before entering."

Well, here it was. She said, "Get undressed." So that means, be naked and get under the covers, right? That's what "get undressed" must mean, right? Although, on second thought, maybe she just meant take off your robe and get under the covers with your boxers. Shit. What should i do? What is protocol here? I wish I were a well-tanned, old golfer executive type from Phoenix, who got lots of massages and knew exactly what to do in this situation.

I took my robe off an hung it. Then I started getting under the covers of the massage table with my boxers on. Then I crawled back out and stood up, confused ... Then I took my boxers off ... Then I put them back on .. Then I took them off again ... Then SHIT! Bitch, you said you would knock!

Well, she didn't. There I was, naked as shit, my 18-inches hanging out. And there she was, staring. After a few seconds of silence, where I was frozen like a mouse who just got caught gnawing on a piece of cheese in your kitchen, I spoke.

"Umm, whoops. Sorry, um, I was, um ..."

"I'm so sorry," she said, "If you could just ... get under the covers."

So she closed the door quickly. Red-faced, I got under the covers, sans boxers. The decision was made by fate. She's seen me naked, so it can't matter any more. A few moments later, she knocked, and I told her, "Ok .. you can come in."

She knocked again.

I said, "I'm good! You can come in!"

She kept knocking.

"OK! I'm all good! I'm ready."

She still knocked.

I said nothing.

She finally came in, and, without words, began my heavenly massage.

50-minutes later, I was confident I had made the right decision. When getting a Heavenly massage at a Westin Resort, naked is the way to go.

Sao Paulo, an inland city of eleven million heaving, passionate Brazilians, is the biggest city in South America (and in fact, in the entire Southern Hemisphere) and the second biggest city in all of the Americas (right after Mexico City). This random demographic information is relevant simply because I am presently writing to you from the middle of Sao Paulo. I'm near the Parque do Carmo, a vast circle of dark-green trees, trails and museums which provides the only relief from the endless sea of skyscrapers. The thick line of skyscrapers perch like hungry sharks circling prey, waiting to engulf the only remaining open land in southern Brazil. The city stretches endlessly (the entire metropolitan area includes close to 20 million people), somewhat like Los Angeles, if Los Angeles was entirely built out of the NYC skyline and jungle trees and cool people (actually, out of respect for Sao Paulo, I would like to withdraw the comparison to the shit that is Los Angeles).

I arrived here unexpectedly on Thursday morning, with two day's notice from work. I'd explain exactly why I'm here if I thought you find it interesting, but by the time I reached "Brazilian Yahoo", you'd be bored.The flight is roughly ten hours, and confirms the fact that it is better to fly for ten hours internationally than three hours domestically. International flights go to lengths to make you comfortable. Domestic flights pride themselves on doing every thing they can to ruin your day, such as maximizing out the number of irritable babies they can shove in one plane.

I'd always wanted to go to South America, although perhaps under different circumstances. I've been working twelve hour days, and traveled exclusively between the office and my hotel. Fortunately, I've been able to squeeze in three client dinners in the past days, all of which were unique and delicious. As you might imagine, the seafood in Sao Paulo is intensely fresh and diverse. I've had Amazonian fish, which was thick and white, like Mark Wahlberg, if he was a fish in the Amazon that tasted like butter and cod. I've had giant (as in cat-sized) prawns, squid, fish broth soup, and a number of other items I was unable to identify due to both their odd appearance and Portuguese name. The breads here are also fantastic, including a wonderful invention called Pao De Queijo. which is a bit like the cheesy biscuits at Red Lobster, but lighter. The steaks are monumental: My one steak order included two full steaks, with an endless number of sides. That is the beauty of eating here: Like many European countries, the residents of Sao Paulo enjoy eating full and proper meals. That means that from the moment you sit down, before you actually place an order, a number of tapas-like appetizers are brought out. Calamari in copper bowls, zucchini chips in porcelain cups, grilled vegetables with an olive oil glaze, fresh breads of all kinds. You then order a fresh juice of some sort: pineapple with mint, watermelon, grape. With your meal comes an army of waiters to adorn your plate with sides. You didn't order them, but they are there. If you order a beer, your glass is filled as soon as they detect it is empty. In short, you are treated like an emperor. While it is true this is the expensive business dining culture of Sao Paulo, it is immensely better than service at similar places in New York City.

I've said before that cities are, to some extent, the same, no matter where they are. That doesn't mean physically; it simply means philosophically. They all have tall buildings, lots of people, and cabs, and you mostly eat, drink, and go to museums. It's what makes a city a city, not a town. Whether the buildings are filled with Chinese people or German people, the cabs are Fords or Citroens, and the street food is hot dogs or shwarma, the drink is wine or beer ... The premise is similar. Because of that, it is the small details that define a city. And the details that define Sao Paulo make it great. Most particularly, the people.

Confidential sources within the Zivkovic campaign have told SFNinja that Slaven Zivkovic was in fact married this past Tuesday, October 28, to Lejla Sahinovic at New York's City Hall, at 1 Centre Street, 2nd Floor. The ceremony was reported to be unassuming and small, presided over by a legal surrogate, with only two guests in attendance. A representative for Mr. Zivkovic neither confirmed nor denied the allegations, although SFNIinja finds it revealing that the usually reticent Mr. Zivkovic has yet to issue a denial.

SFNinja sources within City Hall have provided the following images as evidence of the legally-binding marriage:

Mr. Zivkovic's marriage ends fifteen years of speculation as to the winner of a bet made between SFNinja co-founder Mark Anderson and Slaven Zivkovic as to the first to be married. With Slaven's marriage, the list of survivors (in order of most likely to be the next married) now stands as the following:

1. Paul Kohli (his charade as a heterosexual has never fooled SFNinja).
2. Neal Arthur
3. Bart Barden
4. Kendrick Kwan
5. SFNinja co-founder, Mark Anderson

To the last-man-standing, as per the rules stated on the fifth day of December in 1994, all signees must provide a 40-ounce of Bud Ice and a to-be-determined certificate.

SFNinja issues their warmest and sincerest regards to Slaven Zivkovic and new member of the SFNinja family, Lejla Sahinovic.