Lyn Paul Taylor‘s granddaughter Savannah ushers me into his office this morning.
I arrange my worldly belongings according to the teachings of my Feing Shui instructor and get centered, preparing for transfiguration.
Lyn walks in.
"I’m a wreck," I say. "I’m but a shell of my former self. Please help me."
"What’s the problem?" he says all matter of fact as though we don’t share something, as though we haven’t built something magnificent, a light unto the nations shining from the 15th floor of 3250 Wilshire Blvd.
"I want to keep things strictly below the thighs today," I say. "I’m not who you think I am. Just up to my knees today and no higher. Not an inch more till we’re married. Oy, my knees. They’re killing me. I spend so much time on them begging, and while it is good for my neshama to humble myself before the rabbis and the ladies, oy, the wear and tear on my creaky ol’ knees, Lyn, please save me!
"A lifetime of giving lap dances in seedy clubs has finally caught up with me. I feel so cheap and tawdry. I am the greatest of sinners. Heal me and I’ll never be naughty again. I’ll be the best of boys.
"And my shins ache. And my feet. They’re all sensitive and archy. It’s not good for prose.
"And please check my elbows. And my hands. The thumbs, oy vey! So much pain."
"I thought we weren’t going above the knee today," Lyn says.
"Oy vey! I’m in pain."
Lyn examines my hands. He says I’ve been abusing myself performing deeds strictly forbidden by the Torah. The technical name for my ailment is Tosser’s Tunnel Syndrome.
Lyn prescribes cold showers, pure thoughts and strenuous exercises to be performed while contemplating my rabbi’s pure love for me.
Lyn’s new assistant Diva the Pianist joins us. She’s only 20 but tall and dark and handsome. She’s from the land of Mahmoud Amadinijad and she lands in my life like an atomic bomb on Tel Aviv.
"I’m the greatest writer of my generation," I tell her. "I can’t be hampered by these stigmata. I have an important moral message to convey to you and to the youth of America at Cal State Northridge and while my hands ache, my blog doesn’t sing and my old lady doesn’t dance and my rabbi doesn’t let me in shul, and the beit din, oy, the beit din, how long O Lord shall I be kept out of Your Holy Covenant?"
Lyn brings the three girls in and they lather me in white cream and over the next hour they proceed to vibrate and ultrasound my most tender regions.
6 pm. I hit the JConnectLA Tweet up at La Gondola (9025 Wilshire Blvd in Beverly Hills).
Rabbi Jonah has the biggest head I’ve seen all day. That thing must weigh 20 pounds. It’s perpetually tilted back, causing his neck to disappear. He must be in great pain. His chest is thrust forward and his breath comes in gasp. He’s in bad need of the Alexander Technique.
Swallowing three Diet Cokes in rapid succession, I float up on a cloud of caffeine to the point where I see Ultimate Truth and become convinced that everybody in the room needs to accept F.M. Alexander right now as their lord and savior. I start proselytizing. "Let your neck be free and tall. Think your directions. Up and forward with the head. Inhibit your habitual patterns. Pause. Think your directions. Up.
"You can only feel certain emotions with certain alignments of your musculature. If you are poised, if you have a long spine and your head balanced, you can’t feel depressed or anxious."
