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But here’s the kicker—everybody lies about it. “Oh, it’s just a massage,” they say, smirking. Yeah, right. You’re not fooling me, buddy. It’s a power trip too—someone’s got you half-naked, vulnerable, and you’re just lying there, hoping they don’t suck at it. Like in *Timbuktu*, when the jihadists roll in, all smug, controlling everything—same vibe, but with less guns and more lavender oil. I’d kill for a masseuse who’d whisper, “The river will flow again,” while she’s working out my knots. Poetic, right? Too bad most of ‘em just grunt and slap your ass to say “done.”

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I remember this one day, I was walkin’ past Norman Reid Park and overheard a family laughing so hard about how their kid said “I’m a superhero!” It made me grin like crazy, like, “C’mon! Embrace the madness!” I even got a little teary, thinking how every little quirky moment matters, like every scene in Moulin Rouge!, “Come what may!” Aww, so mushy, amirite?

Family, friends search for missing Brooklyn Heights father