Here’s another gem of a special flavor of humor practised by my oldest and bestest friend. I suppose he would be writing for substack now, but from what I hear, there is as yet no internet connection up there… We miss him! Another of his on substack
MOVIE MOGULS MOVED BY MASSAGE....
IT’S CANNES-DO FOR JIN SHIN DO
LOCAL DUDE GRATEFUL, EATS WELL
by Jeronimo Miller
I have these two guardian angels - Peter and Chantal - who live in the south of France, in the foothills of the Alps. They are extremely supportive and generous friends, and over the past 30 years have accompanied me on several passages through the Gates of Major Change as my life convoluted into its next form.
I granted myself the luxury of calling them one Sunday morning last March (instead of E-Mail) just to hear their voices and share some laughs. I was telling them of the successes I’ve been having combining Jin Shin Do acupressure with my new massage chair, a device you sit foreword in as it supports your shins, your bottom, your chest, your arms and your head.
“People really like it,” I told them. “It’s totally portable. I go to their homes or offices and hold some points, massage some meridians, loosen ‘em up and calm ‘em down. Hello tranquility - goodbye stress. A totally relaxing, softening experience, they tell me - rejuvenating, heavenly. Some even float off the chair when we’re done. I have to put flashing red lights on them.”
“Got an idea,” Chantal said. “I’m working for an Australian film company in this year’s festival. Why don’t you pack up your chair and come over here and I’ll get you a picture pass and you can get in almost anywhere. I’ll introduce you to producers and directors I’ve worked with, PR companies, other film companies - and you can take it from there, possibly earn enough to cover some of your expenses. At the very least we’ll have a lot of fun - movies, parties, good wine, craziness and we’ll get to visit. What do you say?”
Hmmm, The Cannes Film Festival. The Riviera. I imagined an azure Mediterranean lapping against warm beaches with designer sand, stacked with swimsuit-challenged goddesses giggling in French while eating crepe suzettes and drinking Chateau Margaux. What’s not to like?, I thought.
“Oye, oye,” I replied enthusiastically.
“What’s that?,” Chantal asked.
“I mean, ‘Oui, oui’.”
I have a background in television and film. In the late 1950’s, I majored in tv and film at Oklahoma University. I dabbled a bit in movies in Chicago as a director and editor, then worked in commercial TV in San Jose. Once in San Francisco in the ‘70’s I was the star of a feature entitled, “The Plastic Fantasy of Primo Afghani.” This was less good than the worst film ever made - even the Musicians’ Union of Mandalay refused to make mandolin picks out of it.
Nonetheless, I was Film Professional with Ambitions.
If somebody had told me in 1973 that in 25 years I would be attending the Cannes Film Festival (Alright!), I would be amazing directors and producers with the clarity of my insights (Yes!!) and moving them with the force of my work (YES!!!), and that I was not there for any film project, but rather in the capacity of an acupressure massage therapist (wha..?) - I would have forcefully expelled blue smoke from my nether orifice, in disbelief (a not uncommon response in my family).
Say What?! Blue smoke or not, life has a way of depositing us in the most unlikely scenes.
Fast forward to May, 1998. I am suddenly transported to the Côte d’ Azur, to the Land of Ultimate Veneer. Dressed in white hemp slacks and a black tee shirt emblazoned with a huge yin/yang symbol, a white sun hat with “Fear and Loathing” stitched on, Vasque hiking shoes with yak wool socks, I am schlepping a luggage cart with a Stronglite massage chair bungee corded to it down the teeming streets of Cannes and the Croisette, the oceanfront boulevard studded with major hotels and swirling with street theatre. A cell phone is clipped to my belt. For two days I have been passing out advertising posters with my cell phone number to many of the hundreds of film companies from 72 countries in the 5 big hotels: The Majestic, The Miramar, The Noga Hilton, The Carleton, the Martinez. Now I await the moment when some suffering assistant director - or celestial luminary - calls out to “Holiday for Vertebrae” to provide pain and stress relief and a little empathy as well, a tranquil turnout above the throng.
Meanwhile, I am dodging the hordes of tourists and promotional teams clogging the sidewalks and streets. Bikini-bandaged starlets promoting some unfathomable fantasy churn along the Croisette dressed as Santa Claus from the neck up and a nearly unwrapped gift from the neck down. Lifesize condom puppets stiffly wobble past. Huge billboards advertising Godzilla and running the length of the Carlton and 30 feet high, pronounce, “Size Does Matter.” Bi-planes with fluttering banners echo that same sizeist sentiment. Ferarris, Maseratis, Mercedes, Bentleys, Rolls Royces and Aztecs litter the curbs. Clots of gawkers gather whenever the appearance of a legendary notable is imminent. My first day I saw - at close range - Johnny Depp, Willem Dafoe, Emma Thompson, William Hurt, Kiefer Sutherland. Once per block some tourist oaf of massive proportions stumbles into my cart, and over it goes, torquing my wrist as well. Eventually I seek out the back alleys to avoid the crush.
What am I doing, I wondered during those first slow days, flying 8000 miles and 9 times zones to become Cannes’ first Jewish rickshaw driver? For this I fly on a twin-engine Beaver at 7 in the morning? For this I crossed the tundra and the oceans? - forget the deserts already. Cafe on the Rock wasn’t exciting enough for me? The Buckely Bay MiniMart didn’t provide enough cultural diversity? Am I nuts? Of course.
My cell phone rings!
An English woman with a clipped accent wants to know if this is “Holiday for Vertebrae” acupressure on the line? It is, I assured her. “Well then, can you be at the Imperial Suite of the Carleton Hotel at 2:30 this afternoon? One of our producers has a stiff neck and needs a massage.” I assure her I will be there.
The Imperial Suite! The very name suggests Royalty, Power, Command Decisions. We’re not talking textured wheat gluten here.
At 2:15 I blow into the Carleton. Security is heavy - Bruce Willis is arriving. With my picture pass, I triumphantly stride past squinty-eyed security schmucks schlepping my cart behind me, a Rain Coast Taoist Semi-Shaman AcuSemite on call. Such a Deal!
Into the ascensor, press number 7, and in seconds the elevator disgorges me into some marble-strewn labyrinth of privilege. I stroll to the end, knock on the massive door and me and my chair are granted entry into the Imperial Suite. Secretaries in tight business suits scurry about on brown marble floors. Bold black and white movie posters featuring the latest production hang on the walls. Their film is in contention for one of the prized Palm of Gold awards. Crisp professionalism, courtesy and subtle perfumes blend with the decor. After a short wait I am led into one of two opulent bedrooms with emperor-sized beds. Across the windows layers of lace curtains restrain the afternoon sun. Across the Croisette I can see immense yachts swing langorously at anchor in the harbor . My client emerges from her bathroom in slacks and a blouse, introduces herself in most pleasant fashion, mounts the chair and turns herself over to me.
I give her a tender head massage, rub the meridians in each arm and finger and web, rub her hands, hold, discuss and release all the 12 emotionally-oriented Yu points on the back and then provide an extended neck and shoulder release. The 60 minute treatment ends with one hand on the crown of the head, the other between the shoulder blades, imparting a warm and secure afterglow. A couple of points on the feet to bring the energy down and - viola! - a new person arises, with soft, relaxed features and a head that freely turns 90 degrees each way. Little pillow lines gently crease the smiling skin. Effusive thanks and compliments accompanied my fee, which hovered in the vicinity of $100 an hour Canadian.
And from there it began to roll in. Between the gradually gathering groundswell of word-o’-mouth and my flyers, the cell phone rang more and more frequently. Often it was the wrong number. Sometimes a canned voice began speaking earnest nonsense in French, whereupon I responded by speaking loudly and slowly in English.
But then - there’s a call for a massage at the Chrystal, then two producers and their wives at the Mountfleury, two more releases at the Majestic, one at the Noga Hilton, and a distributor in the Martinez . A woman who runs a PR company wants me to massage her and her four secretaries at Le Relais de la Reine!
The Public Relations company provided my most entertaining afternoon. The owner wanted an hour massage, after which she was treating her four secretaries to 15 minutes each. I set my chair up in a bedroom off the main suite. Some young American film reps wanting to see the owner had come into the main suite and took a seat. They see me exit the bedroom with a very relaxed and satisfied owner with little pillow creases on her happy face, and then watch as I select my next woman. A svelte 28 year old Scottish lass bounces up and enthusiastically accompanies me into the bedroom, only to emerge 15 minutes later looking very relaxed and dreamy with little pillow creases on her happy face.
“Next?,” I inquired, and yet another secretary, an adorable French woman, eagerly joins me in the bedroom for her 15 minutes of satisfaction. The representatives, who have nothing better to do than watch four times this merry-go-round of disappearing women who later reappear smiling, sighing and somewhat disheveled, begin to eye me with a mixture of anger, envy and admiration. France!, I can hear them thinking. And that damned Viagra!
Soon I was averaging about 3 hour massages a day, and I was giving a few away for promotion. What dazzled me was the unerringly enthusiastic response of the client. They loved the massage. They particularly responded to the emotional assessment through holding points on their backs, and thought my observations were “bang on!” Inevitably, the most armored points on the directors and producers were the pericardium points. The pericardium is a gelatinous sack which surrounds the heart and protects it from emotional and physical assaults. It gets tight if the heart feels threatened. Think about it: if you’re going to reveal your creativity, a little of your intimate self, to the world of critics and businessmen, your spirit would be guarded, and therefore your pericardium point defensive.
Liver and gallbladder points were also hot spots. The movie world and half of Cannes finishes eating dinner at midnight. The liver works all night, instead of having time to regenerate itself.
And by their very nature, their penchant for control, directors’ and producers’ portraits fill the Gallbladder Hall Of Fame.
Seens of Note:
Saw world premiere of “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” Loved the book, OD’d on the film.
Saw John Travolta, Winona Ryder, Martin Scorsese, Robert Duvall, Janet Leigh, Bruce Willis, Roman Polansky, Mick Jagger, Emma Thompson, Sigornie Weaver, John Hurt, Jon Voight, Andie McDowell, Jimmy Stewart, Martin Borman, Boris Karloff, Benjamin Disraeli, Sonny Liston, Eva Peron, Henry Hudson....
Favorite Meal: Mussels in wine/herb/garlic sauce with French fries and roquette salad. Or perfectly crisped duck at my friend’s house, or their marinated, bbq’d leg of lamb. Or the salmon ravioli...
Favorite Wine: Can’t remember....
Too busy working to see more than 5 movies, but shared a theater with the Prince of Monaco on one occasion. We were both equally unmoved by the others’ presence.
Private Parties: Chantal got us into the big MTV/Godzilla bash, in addition to a post-screening party for “The General” and scads of cocktail/publicity parties where canapes, champagne and talk of careers flavored the evening. I successfully worked the cocktail circuit for clients.
Minor Woes: Had a chance to massage lead singer of Duran Duran, Simon LeBon (c’est bon), but he opted for a local Shiatsu studio instead (c’est bum). As well, I was paid in advance to massage the man who won Best Actor, 1998. I was to meet he and his wife in his hotel room at the Colony at 14:00. Unbenounced to me, he had already been told earlier that he was winning the top award that evening, and was whisked away to some sequestered suite in the Carleton. His room phone did not respond to my urgent rings. And I was calling the wrong country code on the cell. A mutual friend was told the client was in Braveheart, and had said Mel Gibson LOVES massage therapists, wants them at his movie sets. Alas, I could not connect with the gentleman and so lost an opportunity. My fantasy of being a massage therapist to that star and his supporting constellations vanished for now.
I gloomily ventured down the street from his hotel and plopped on a stool at King Biblos where I drowned my sorrows in Lebanese food. Disconsolately, I dropped dollops of babaganoosh and homus in my lap, thereby heightening my appeal and enhancing my professionalism. But it was the last day; who cared what clung to my inner thigh? I took the high road with an eggplantish lilt back to my hotel room to change and to prepare to see the stars enter the Awards’ Ceremony from the third storey balcony of Southern Star Films, across the street from the Palace of Film. Then, starting tomorrow, back up to Peter and Chantal’s to effect a reversal of sleep deprivation.
Final accounting showed I earned enough to pay for my hotel room for two weeks, all my food and other expenses and a small portion of my plane fare. It was reassuring and confidence-building to take this massage discipline away from home and out into the real international world of stress and strain and have clients respond so favorably. And it’s also a tribute to the excellence of our senior teachers on Lasqueti and the Jin Shin Do program itself. Next year with these new connections the acupressure massage business should be even better. I love the south of France and can’t wait to return. And I love returning to Denman even more.