Friday night got started on what was technically Saturday morning, due to the logistical challenges inherent in dressing entirely in duct tape and sail grommets. The party ended up being well worth it, however...between the MST3K-style Poltergeist screening and the totally-snookered poker, I ended up staying until the morning sun started to come over the hills. I'll Flickr the photographic evidence later this week.
...and then I headed straight to work. Ugh.
But after ten hours of drudge, I got myself to Little Tokyo to be pounded senseless by a middle-aged Japanese woman. You see, I've never actually *had* a massage before (at least, not a massage for which I was arranging and paying), so the concept was something of a novelty. Considering all I'd heard about Shiatsu...I mean, you pay to have people step on you?!...I was understandably skeptical. But wow...it's as though my ribcage were a locked box, and she figured out how to open it with her toes. By body is functioning differently today, after spending most of yesterday aching and recovering from her ministrations.
It wasn't what I'd expected...first of all, it *hurt*. Lying on the mat in that little room, I'd feel her foot come down in a warm little caress - a caress that turned cruel and pulsing, pinpointing exactly where my body cried out for pressure to *not* be applied, then digging deep into the space between my bones. And then, just when I was certain I was going to yelp and buck, it was gone. And then it would begin again. Today, however, my neck feels a mile long, my legs supple, and my spinal column as though someone took a can of WD-40 to every moving part. It's lovely.
And then, afterward, I wandered through the neighborhood to have udon with friends...a warm ending to a chilly night. We'd planned to hit the art colony party, twisting and flirting with the scruffle-headed, overserious trust-fund babies, but it was so sweet and insular to stay with each other, nestled in the flourescent womb of the noodle house, giggling and slurping broth and emerald-green spinach and the perfected toothiness of a well-prepared ribbon of udon.
I woke up Sunday to a bogglingly full griddle full of potatoes and peppers and onions and hand-picked cilantro, scrambled tofu and toasted Jamaican eggbread. I wish I could affix some sort of scratch-and-sniff module to this post...the smell of this breakfast would bring a smile to a dead man's face. So. Freaking. Good.
The epic breakfast fueled a twelve-mile hike up to the crest of Mount Pacifico. It was one of the most stunning little constitutionals I've ever done - classic California, with its scrubby, sweeping vistas, miles of grasses waving like golden feathers, and bone-white outcroppings catching the warm late-afternoon sun in a million sparkling bits of quartz. The hike climaxed in half an hour of holy terror, brought to you by daylight savings' time, as we trail-ran the last segment to beat the sun - it was dropping like a fishing weight behind the range.
We cruised by India Sweets & Spices to pick up dinner for everybody, and discovered that India's celebrating a holiday - Diwali - that involves eating sweets and lighting candles. So we turned last night into a Diwali celebration, complete with a tray full of sweets everyone loved but noone could identify and enough fire to scare the cat. And watching the Lost Coast HL2 module, which is pretty and features commentary by a programmer with an Austrailan accent. I am confirmedly a nerd, but...HOT.
Tonight, WeHo...where, every year, I have at least one gay man bury his face in my cleavage. Ah, tradition.