My Kitchen Is Tiananmen Square


"Jon, wake up."

"But it's Saturday…"

"The masseuse is here."

"What masseuse?"

"Your masseuse."

Concerned that I apparently walk crookedly, my mother asked her friend's masseuse to visit our house and fix me.

Still groggy, I stripped to my boxers and plopped face down on a massage table set up in our dining room.

The masseuse concluded that my lower right back muscles were too taut.

He slathered my lower back in a gel. I awaited his magic touch.

Instead, I heard him open a plastic baggie.

"What are you doing?"




Three needles in my lower right back, one in my upper ass.

As I lay pretty much naked in our dining room looking like a giant prepubescent porcupine, the masseuse and my mother sat on either side of me debating whether one of my legs is shorter than the other.



A half-hour later, the actual back massage began.

To say the masseuse applied oil liberally is an understatement. I felt like he was preparing to stick me up someone's ass.

I soon realized how uncomfortable it is to rest your face on a padded toilet seat for an extended period of time.

I'm used to puke-and-runs.


Saturday evening, I had dinner with relatives at Chef Chu's.

On my way to the men's room after locating our table, Larry — Chef Chu's oldest son and the restaurant manager — approached me.

"Jon Yu! I finally get to discuss your infamous blog with you."

"Shit," I thought. "Did I write anything disparaging?"

"I googled 'Chef Chu's' and found your blog."


I feigned mirth and kept walking crookedly toward the restrooms.

I avoided Larry for the rest of the night.