Still relevant

Folks, this comes straight out of the 2004 archives. Can you believe it? Three years later and nothing has changed. How about that?

All of this is true. No shit.

Winter, 2004

Dearest Friends,

Just before the holidays I had a profound experience that I wanted to share with all of you. As many of you know, I am a strong believer that since there are so many different energies around us we have to be open to receiving all the good, bad, and crazy in the world.

Mark this down in column three.

Recovering from a disappointing late-fall Spin class, I decided to vent the failures of the early morning by taking a few moments in the sauna. With my water bottle half full, clothed in a towel, I sat on the pine bleacher-style seat and enjoyed a relaxing beginning to an otherwise normal Tuesday.

Twenty minutes into my retreat, my water bottle was drained -- typically, this is when I retire to the showers and begin my standard morning routine.

Not today.

Two visitors joined me. The first was an Italian gentleman wearing a track suit. The other, in similar attire, was R. Kelly. The first question that comes to mind when encountering a male celebrity in an au natural setting is, “How big are his balls?” Mr. Kelly’s balls were nowhere to be seen, buried under a layer of NBA warm-up gear, sneakers, and, I think, a turtleneck.

For those of you who may not be familiar with R. Kelly, one of the finest R&B artists/child rapists of our time, here is a link to Mr. Kelly's bio.

Let’s pause for a moment. It’s 7:00 a.m., almost 160 degrees -- no odds-maker could have predicted this encounter.

Another member of his entourage entered, this time wearing camouflage pants and a hooded sweatshirt, carrying a small cooler of Gatorade. I looked out the window of the sauna door and saw the gentleman who I believed to be R. Kelly's sentry wearing a full parka with fur hood.

After a brief exchange including: “Where is it,” “It’s on the bus,” and “Well, go get it,” we were once again left alone. What “it” was or why “it” was so important is left to the ages.

Deciding that I had to unpurse my lip, lest the opportunity escape, I remarked, “I feel under dressed.” A cheerful observation on my obvious nakedness and their clothedness.

R. KELLY: Man, really? I’m cold in here, I’m trying to get a blanket or something.

My mouth tried to say "huh" but my brain was trying to conserve energy.

R. KELLY: This is how we do it.

TRAINER: If you’re here to just exfoliate, you do it like you’re doing it. But if you’re here to lose a few pounds, this is how we do it.

R. KELLY: This is how we do it.

R. KELLY & TRAINER: This is how we do it.

R. KELLY: This? I don’t feel nothing.

Taking a sip of his chilled Gatorade, he then pulled up the leg of his warm-up pants to show an under-layer that resembled a garbage bag with the NBA logo on it. Something to really seal in the heat.

At this point I make a conscious note that I am out of water.

This is not an excuse for the following comment.

ME: You’re all wrapped up like a turkey.

Then there was silence. I thought to myself, “What does 'turkey' mean? Is it slang for ‘you’re a rapist,’ or ‘please, sexually assault me in the sauna?’”

At this moment, the clouds part and I am met with a moment of clarity. I realize that I am white, naked, and have zero street-cred.

They laugh and nod in true Trainer/R.Kelly rhetoric -- whether or not it’s in reference to my comment is between them. R. Kelly and his trainer have a very intimate grammar, with neither actually needing to finish sentences, although the other clearly knows the intent.

I closed my eyes, rapidly approaching the thirty minute mark. Should I stay? Should I go? When else will I have an opportunity to spend time with one of the world’s top-selling recording artists? This was a man who urinated on a 14-year-old in a Chicago McDonald's, then followed up with one of the most amazing albums the world had ever heard. His record label had so much confidence that he would beat the child-rape charges that they actually allowed the album title to read The Chocolate Factory.

The silence broke again as a rather large, naked, man flew through the front door. With his milky white skin and salt-and-pepper hair, he looked like he was on furlough from Planet Accountant. Taking one look at the pastoral scene he proclaimed, “Man, it’s hot in here,” and promptly left.

R. KELLY: What does that fool think? It’s gonna be cool in here?

TRAINER: It ain’t cool in here.

I nodded in agreement. I also started to see spots. Most importantly, I tried to look cool as I eavesdropped, redistributing my body’s precious (and rapidly evaporating) sweat over my burning flesh.

They discuss the wake-up time in the morning and how the trainer will be there right when he wakes up. Very paternal, indeed. And then there was something about a night shift, but the specific details were unknown to both of them. Apparently R. Kelly's days are 100% scheduled, although the person that keeps the schedule was not in the sauna, locker room, or easily accessible at that moment.

Finally, knowing my limits, I got off the soaked pine bench and made my way to the door. I nodded and dropped a, “Have a good one, guys,” on my way out and was met with reciprocity.

The cool air calmed my screaming nerves, glad to be out of the pressure cooker. As I showered, dried off, and put on my non-NBA-issue sneakers, I welcomed the return to reality.