God bless massage therapists. I have been prone to make fun of my second city - Asheville - and its endless proliferation of massage therapists, psychics, glass blowers and belly dancers. Add the trust fundies, the couch surfers and the pot dealers to the mix, and hardly anyone seems to have the sort of employment suggested by high school guidance counselors.

But for a full week my lower back has felt pretty good, and I owe it all to Evaa, the massage goddess who graciously bartered Indian tapestries for an hour of hands-on miracle working.

It is unbelievable to know that I could get a discounted bottle of painkillers through Blue Cross, but not a massage.

NTD