Seriously

Recently, I found myself on Santa Monica's 3rd Street Promenade with some time to kill. After a little browsing, I found myself doing what most people in their lives have done at one point or another: I moseyed into the Brookstone to use one of their massage chairs for way too long.

Let me back up a second. I think the free Brookstone massage is one of the greatest things the modern mall has to offer, and I love forgetting about my cares and letting myself drift away while the hyperactive ten-year-old directly behind me plays with a mechanical dragon that dances to iPod music. Brookstone itself is the greatest, because not one item that it sells is something you need. If you purchase something from Brookstone, congratulations - you've briefly become a wasteful rich person!

Anyway, as I sat there, enjoying the benefits of a luxury item I had no intention of buying, in walks the lost member of Color Me Badd, he euro hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a blazer and round sunglasses with the ever-cool blue tint. He's listing to music via his wrap-around-behind-the-head earphones. He slips into the chair next to mine after removing his suede moccasins. He smells. He hums along to his music. He is a burden.

And I realize: this is where he goes for his regular massage.

Suddenly, I hate myself for sitting in the chair in the first place. I do NOT want to be that guy.