I read with interest last week’s report that a local man had been charged with trying to illegally massage an undercover police officer. According to police, the man, Keith Comire of Cohoes, had advertised on craigslist.org; in his ad, he promised customers “incall services in a safe environment in a nice neighborhood and discretion is always assured.”
Everything about Comire’s advertisement sounds completely sketchy, and I can only speculate about the motives of the people who responded to it, and what they really wanted. (There’s also the matter of Comire’s terrible writing and lousy grammar, and his prior arrest for possessing child pornography, but that’s beside the point.) Clearly a market for sketchy masseurs exists, because periodically stories like this bubble to the surface. In 2006, Colonie police busted a handful of brothels disguised as massage parlors, and last week the Times-Union ran a story looking at the prevalence of unlicensed masseurs on the Internet, and craigslist in particular. Some of these so-called masseurs and masseuses, the article explained, exchange sexual services for cash.
I look at craigslist regularly, for a number of reasons. Sometimes I find ideas for stories there. There are often ads for concerts and other cool things. And a friend of mine assures me that if I want to buy a used bookcase or speakers, I could do worse than search for those items on craigslist. But the site is a little bit like the Wild West, with all sorts of sketchy characters hawking their sketchy wares, and if I wanted a massage, craigslist is pretty much the last place I would look.
It had never occurred to me to get a massage until last fall, when I was wandering around Albany and ran into an acquaintance of mine, who informed me that he had recently gotten his massage therapy license and was opening a shop in front of my apartment. “That’s nice,” I said, never thinking for a moment that I would set foot in his shop for any reason other than to say hello.
Being stoic New Englanders, Fosses are not particularly New Age-y, and for some reason massage had always struck me as vaguely New Age-y, the first step on a slippery slope that ultimately led to healing crystals and drum circles and astrology. I don’t really know very much about any of these things, but it’s a slope I’ve always avoided. Then my acquaintance began offering a special deal, half-hour massages for $25. It was December. I was settling into my annual holiday season funk. Every day I walked past the sign advertising this special deal, feeling stressed out and gloomy and annoyed with the world, and one day I looked at the sign and thought why not? I’d never had a real massage before. What was it like? I decided to find out. It would be my Christmas present to myself.
My friend did a brief intake when I arrived for my massage, asking some stock questions about pain and tightness, and if I ever feel stiff. “Sure,” I said. “I feel stiff in my back and shoulders and neck.” “How often?” he asked. I gave it some thought. “Well,” I said. “All of the time.” This is the sort of answer, no doubt, that is music to my massage therapist’s ears, since his business depends on people like me, who sit at desks all day and never stretch and wouldn’t know a yoga mat if they tripped over one at the gym. In any case, there’s nothing like a massage to get you to realize just how much pain you’re in on a daily basis. I don’t know what illusions I had about massage, but my new therapist basically beat the hell out of me, mixing in moderately painful deep tissue stuff with other, less painful techniques; when he worked on my neck, it felt like he was kneading away at raw nerves. I was sore for a day or two, but once this soreness subsided I felt lighter, more relaxed. It made such a difference that for a few weeks I became something of an evangelist, preaching about the benefits of massage to anyone who would listen. I’ve quieted down, but occasionally I return to my friend’s shop, and it’s always helpful. And I have yet to fill my apartment with healing crystals, consult an astrologer, or play in a drum circle in the park.
From talking to my massage therapist, I’ve become more aware of the seamy underworld of unlicensed masseurs and their clients. My friend’s license is displayed on the wall; he runs a legitimate business in a public location. But he told me that he regularly gets calls from sketchy people making sketchy inquiries, such as whether he has any Asian women working for him. He said he tries to explain what massage therapy is to these folks, in the hopes of educating them and sparing them future embarrassment. But the calls haven’t stopped, because there’s always been and always will be a sketchiness market, as anyone who’s ever taken economics and learned about the law of supply and demand understands. OK, I barely understand it, having barely passed Economics 101, but you get my point. In any case, if someone’s going to beat the hell out of me, I want them to have a license that says they’re qualified to do that. But then all I want from my massage therapist is a massage. Nothing more.
Oh yeah, Foss Forward is on vacation July 3 to July 13. In the contemporary workplace, this is kind of like taking a six-month sabbatical. A whole week-and-a-half off! I was tempted to live-blog from Maine about all my adventures (sample entry: 11:30 a.m.: left for the beach, 5 p.m.: played horseshoes and had a beer, 7 p.m.: went out for clams, etc.), but my editor stopped me. “I don’t want this blog to take over your life,” she said sternly. It’s what she’s always saying, and frankly, it’s a drag. I want to blog all of the time. I begged and pleaded, but she has forbidden me to post during my vacation. So in all likelihood I’ll be back on July 14.
