Club 201, Or Acupuncture is the New Recliner Sofa

As the bicentenially-and-oneth poster (like, one who posts, not one which hangs, and by that I mean one which is mounted, but not... you know what I'm getting at), I'd hereby like to make a daring proclamation among Spiderettes and Spiderees alike: I am not moving to Chicago, and I'm very happy about it.

Me and Robin Williams hanging out in Missoula.

Big Sky Country is treating me very well for one or more reasons. I don't have to go to school but people respect me because I have (I finally received my diploma in the mail to prove it - but why does it take four months, might I ask?), I only work part-time, and it has been the freaking most beautiful end-of-summer I've ever seen. The leaves have just barely started changing color, our neighbor gave us a zucchini and a bucket of apples, and it only rains when we really need it. Autumn in Missoula is truly a wonderful sight.

Me and Robin Williams go fishing like, every day.

As a matter of fact, Haylee (cryptically and evasively part of the GSS as something donut-related) is coming to visit this weekend, and we have in our plans some or all of the following: Picking more apples and pressing them for cider both soft and hard; hanging out in my very own back yard with its very own greenhouse and yard furniture; drinking heavily; wearing sweatpants; attending the season's prime farmer's market; playing the baby grand piano which rests majestically in my very own living room; going back to bed; and acupuncture.

Acupuncture. I shall explain:

On our way back to Missoula from Maine this summer, we needed a place to stay somewhere in New York, so Kyle called up his photojournalism classmate whose boyfriend's parents lived outside Syracuse. Turns out the thread wasn't as thin as I imagined, and we arrived to the peaceful yet privileged town of Skeanateles ("skinny atlas"), where this boyfriend's mom served us a delicious Italian dinner and wine, and we camped on the shores of one of the cleanest lakes in the world.

Cue applause.

And also, Michael, said boyfriend, spoke to us about the ways of acupuncture. He had recently finished a program in New York that turned him, as a wand may turn a toad into a handsome prince, into a licensed acupuncturist and was moving back to Missoula to open a clinic downtown. It has since opened to an almost startlingly warm reception (I think or hope we've moved on from "Ancient Chinese Secret"); Clark has already been pinned, so to speak, once since they've opened, and made a second appointment for he and his bandmates for this Saturday.

At Missoula Community Acupuncture, you sit in a recliner in a big room and Michael puts 10 or 12 needles in your skin, or more or less, I suppose, depending on your "ailment." According to Clark, the needles themselves are hardly noticeable, and then you just sit for 45 minutes in this comfy chair, perfectly still, relaxing to the sweet new sounds of Enya and/or Philip Glass. Then you pay what you can afford (the average student rate is around $20) and go about your day.

Me and Robin Williams getting ready for some acupuncture.

If I hadn't have met Michael and talked with him about it, I'd still probably be a skeptic about the whole thing. After all, it is numerous sharp things in my oh-so-delicate skin. After all, his clinic is in a basement. After all, it is an mysterious practice from... the Orient. But I was so immediately at ease with and trusting of Michael, I thought, well, what the fuck. Might as well get acupuncture this weekend. It's affordable and interesting, and, after all, I could use some new prick jokes.