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Postby knapplc » Fri May 25, 2007 8:45 am

jayday wrote:I would hope you prefer your wife's "massages" to a professional's ;-)



I got professional massages for a while, and they know how to manipulate the muscle groups to speed healing, while the wife just massages where it hurts as best she can. So I think the professional massage therapist is a worthwhile thing, but overall I just prefer to save that money.

I've only ever gone to a REAL massage therapist, though. I wouldn't want to go to any of those other joints. Just imagine what you're laying on when you lay on that table. :-{ :-P
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Postby whodey#9 » Fri May 25, 2007 8:52 am

Metroid wrote:
A Fleshner Fantasy wrote:
Metroid wrote:
Popcynical wrote:What now?!

I gotta get me a massage.


I hear deeray gives a mean massage. ;-D


They're overrated...I mean I wouldn't know :-b


Really? Whodey just raves about em, you've probably never had deerays "special" happy ending. Whodey says it involves baby oil, a turkey baster and a pony. :-b


8-o .... I didnt know it was a pony I swear...
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Postby knapplc » Fri May 25, 2007 9:02 am

Coincidentally, there's a story in the local paper about massage. Does anyone besides me not know or care who Bo Bice is?

Deidra Slinde, the salon manager, recognized him immediately.

Bo Bice! Oh my gosh!

She pulled out her rhinestone-covered cell phone and began snapping secret photos from behind the front desk, while her co-worker coughed to cover the clicking.

He had the tattoos of his son just like she’d read about, and he looked just like the guy she’d watched night after night a few seasons back on “American Idol,” his long brown hair now in a ponytail.

Feeling silly, and sure he noticed, she walked over to welcome him. He put down the newspaper.

Keep this as quiet as possible, he said politely in a sweet Southern drawl.

Yes. The real thing.

This happened Tuesday around closing time at the Utopia Salon & Day Spa off Old Cheney Road in south Lincoln.

He said he was heading to Utah. He needed a massage. He’d surfed the Internet and found this place, “A Place of Ideal Perfection,” according to brochures on the glass table next to where he sat. “For Women and Men.”

He said he was really happy to meet her.

Carrie Underwood was wonderful, Deidra told him, but we voted for you. We wanted a rocker to win.

“We,” as in the women at the salon.

Earlier that day, someone had called for a 6 p.m. appointment for “Gary.”

That’s not his real name, the person on the phone said. He’s a celebrity.

Deidra figured it was a joke. But she stayed a few minutes later than usual. She was sitting at her spot behind the front desk when he walked in with another guy and sat down in a chair by the front window, just like any normal guy.

That’s when she got out her cell-phone camera.

She told him she’d called in to the show to vote for him again and again. She told him she always votes for the rockers.

Sherry Rybij, one of the salon owners, voted for him, too. Sherry wasn’t there, so Deidra rushed to the back room to call her.

Sherry, you’ll never guess who’s here for a massage!

Deidra has been with the salon all of its nine years.

“She makes this place run,” Sherry says. She’s organized, dependable, cares a lot, and everybody knows it.

The women at Utopia have fun in their down time. They talk about many things, like the hot guys on TV.

Deidra and Sherry both have photo shrines to Patrick Dempsey taped behind the front desk. Sherry sits on the right as you come in, Deidra on the left.

Sherry also has a shrine to Jon Bon Jovi. Deidra has one to Matthew McConaughey. They share a hand-lotion dispenser in the middle, which Sherry decorated with photos of Patrick Dempsey on one side, Rob Lowe on the other.

Sherry pulls it out and laughs.

“We call it our ‘Rob Lowe-tion.’”

Another big topic at the salon is “American Idol.”

“We so voted for Bo,” Deidra says now, two days after the Bo Bice visit. “We loved him.”

The best part is what happened next.

When he came out of his massage, he thanked Deidra and the other women working. (The woman who gave him the hour-long, deep-tissue massage didn’t know him, so it wasn’t a big deal to her.)

He and his friend called a cab. The cab company said it’d take an hour or so to get someone out there, so Deidra offered to drive them back to the hotel.

“He goes, ‘I was kind of hoping we could go get a beer.’”

She grabbed co-worker Karla Zach, and they piled into Deidra’s tiny gray sports car. Bo was smaller than his friend Patrick, so he crawled into the back seat. He wore sunglasses.

No one at Cappy’s recognized him, and the four talked and talked.

He talked about his little boy. … His wife. … His fame and the cool people he meets. … His grandmother. … Alabama. … His dog Sally. …

He drank Heineken. He told her how much he loved sports cars, and racing them, and how she should change her oil more often. He told her he loved her cell phone with the tiny pink rhinestones.

She told him she glued them on herself, one at a time, and he laughed.

“He’s like, ‘You must be as anal-retentive as I am about stuff.’”

Later, she drove him and his friend back to their hotel and stood outside his big tour bus in the parking lot. He told them to wait and then came out of the bus with Sally.

He gave them his e-mail address, hugs, and told them to please keep in touch.

Deidra gets out her cell phone now and clicks through the photos, to prove he was the real thing.

“He was just normal, down-to-earth.”

A real person, too, not just some TV idol.

She’ll get prints made of the photos, she says, and soon there will be a new shrine at the front desk.
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