Going big with big sounds. That's what takes it over 'cuz the sounds are so big.
-Jay Z
The technology behind sound production has increased a billion fold since its inception. The talent that wields it? Not nearly as much. But no matter how loud or how fast or how enthusiastic the effort, the only thing that makes this high-tech noise work are the talent and charisma of the performers.
Over a week ago I got to see Hollow Drive at a house party. I arrived late having come straight from some work-related responsibility so I'd missed their set. Upon my arrival Markus, the band member who'd invited me down, proceeded to thank me for coming down and bust my chops for being late. I am a radio pseudo-celebrity. It was a risky maneuver for someone who has a band he's trying to promote as things like that can be interpreted as either "bad juju" or "charisma." I chose the latter.
From there, the boys and I got along swimmingly. A little while ago prior to the house party I'd heard them on stage at Hog's Palace opening for Sponge. I was too busy handling several work-related tasks to actually watch them perform, but I was impressed by what I heard. I took the invite based on that judgment. I did not expect to like them too.
Markus, ever the marketing mind, offered to play another set so I could see them do their thing. I did not want them to do it as it was their party and they'd already played. Plus, well, we were at a house party in the sticks. The speakers were earnest efforts, but they were pointing out into the acres of tall grass that surrounded the rather large backyard. Acoustically, it was a nightmare. Rick Rubin would have pulled his last few hairs out just thinking about it.
Undaunted, he gathered the guys together and took the stage...or back porch. Al looked tired, Jerr's voice was blown, Mike was a little off, and Markus was all over the place. With no bassist, the four of them showed me performance without polish. Just some guys that know their instruments coming together to use them in someone's backyard in the boondocks. Their performance was nothing special. The talent behind it damn sure was.
Last night I got to see them once again, but back at Hog's Palace. Jim Brown, Sound Guy slash Booker slash Promoter EXTRAORDINARE, has put together a magical array of sound and light with equal parts high-tech wizardry, wit, and chicken wire. What you see and hear is the very essence of what every band has to offer. In a situation like that you can either excel or be exposed.
When Hollow Drive performs you can be sure of a few things. Drums will be kicked and beaten. Necks will be snapped out of joint. Guitars will be pulled hither and thither, wrought out of tune. And microphones will bleed their electric blood from exhaustion after having been run roughshod like a beleaguered bronco at an old time rodeo show. The boys from Hollow Drive may play their instruments, but they do not play at performing.
Mike is their drummer. The sound check was done. The lights were set. His arms went up...held. And when they came down everything happened at once. Guitars screamed. Drums boomed. Voices screamed off the walls. And all five heads on all five necks (Sam was their replacement bassist) banged up and down in worship to the rhythm. Ladies and gentlemen! Al, Jerr, Markus, Mike, and Sam were in the building.
They jumped and slammed. They yelled and clapped. They flipped and dove. But at every point they rocked. And rocked. And rocked some more. I am not one to lavish compliments as it is simply not worth my time (unless va-jay-jay is on the line), but I had fun watching Hollow Drive. I didn't know their songs that well. I didn't recognize their melodies much either. But when talent and charisma come together in a performance none of that matters. Some of the best shows I ever saw were of bands whose music I'd never heard. And Hollow Drive is among them, in most elite company. I also happen to dig their music though so that's a bonus.
I've gotten to know the fellows and their act decently thus far. And, fortunately for me, I look forward to many more. These guys know what they want and are working towards it. It's nice to see that in a down economy in a state with the highest unemployment in The Union there's still someone out there with balls big enough to keep chasing their dreams.
I wish the boys from Hollow Drive well and I look forward to their next show. And if they keep working at it, and striving for it, and putting out 110% day in and day out these guys might even be half as good as Pop Evil. And the congregation said, Amen.
*********
Before performing, Mike approached me to ask if I would come up on stage and introduce him. Aesthetically, this was impossible. Death Valley Dragline was the headliner.
I wanted to see all the bands perform, but work had taken longer than expected and I hadn't been as diligent as I would have liked so I couldn't get there at the start or stay 'til the finish. Had I been staying for the headliner and gotten Jim's permission I would have loved to have introduced them. As it was, I was taking off immediately after Hollow Drive's set so I had to refuse.
I was crazy ridiculously flattered that the guys bothered to ask. Perhaps there will be another opportunity that will be extended later on, but I ain't lookin' for it. They are an amazing group of performers and I can't wait to see what they can pull off in the future.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee: Part 3
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was my set up kick. American Karate prided itself on kick combos. The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was supposed to finish off a kick combo that made your opponent back up and respect your leg power. If he/she didn't, they'd be eating the mat through their nostrils. However, when combined with my scream I could quickly take my opponent off guard.
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was way too easy to telegraph for a guy as weighted down with muscle as I was (220 lbs). But I was quick enough such that my opponent didn't have time to dodge. All they could do was stand there and absorb it in a block. By then I was already coming with the backfist over their guard. My sensei would actually tell my opponents about it and they'd still get caught. Especially if they screamed.
When I went to throw it against The Cop, I didn't even try to disguise it. I even telegraphed it a little extra by quickly spreading my feet a little before I went for it. However, instead of using my uber-deadly right leg, I used my left. Clearly I wanted this fight over since I didn't even use my ace technique to finish him off.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!!!!!!!!!
My left foot was always more accurate, but not as powerful. But The Cop was prepared. Both arms up on his right side he absorbed the blow. I wanted to come in for the backfist anyway just to see what he would do, but The Cop had his own trick up his sleeve.
The Cop knew I couldn't throw punches for contact. He also knew that I couldn't throw any hand techniques whatsoever unless they were obvious. But what I didn't see coming is the overhand ridgehand blow. Once I planted my left foot forward I was out of position for my right-handed backfist. The Cop never gave me a chance. I saw it coming like a screwball pitch from Willie Hernandez. Legs to chest to shoulder to elbow to wrist to my face. It was coming. Hard.
Inside, quietly, I laughed. We both knew he was using a technique I wasn't allowed to use. We both also knew he was using this technique to beat me. So not only was he beating me, he was bullying me; using the merits of his rank to trump a young upstart. As the hand came down directly on the ridge of my nose I did the only thing I could do. Flinch, yet again.
The blow came down on my face and it did connect. But the fact that I was moving so fast towards the floor saved me a broken nose. Instead, I just hit the mat hard. The Cop had his cheap victory and kept his bitchass gaggle of groupies and I lost. However, Rick pulled me aside afterwards and shook my hand. He knew what was up. Thankfully, so did I.
********************************************************************************
A month later, I threw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee again. I was a freshly christened blue belt. He was a green belt. It was clear from the start that I had him beat. I was harder, better, faster, and stronger than he was. Average Mike was probably your proto-typical accountant-type with a wife, a couple kids, and a hard on for chop-socky flicks. Instead of learning what martial arts was about, he signed up at the closest place he could find where they did a lot of kicking and screaming like in that one Karate Kid movie 'cuz his doctor'd told him he needed to get in shape or have a heart attack and he was too lazy to take up jogging.
Mike and me were the only two guys that ever showed up to the gym in the afternoon. So instead of running a full class with just two guys, Rick decided to point-fight us. Since my last go around with The Cop I was not too eager to take out anymore black belts. For a bunch of macho dudes, they got to be some SERIOUS bitchasses when they lost. All the whining and complaining got to be a bit much so I just avoided it altogether. Rick usually let me go ahead and do what I wanted. Not so much with Mike.
Unlike me, Mike had more profit potential. If he jumped belts fast enough he could probably tell his friends. His friends would come in and start training. In between weight training and workout sessions they'd shoot the sh*t and go out for beers afterwards. With Mike they could create another little hamlet of American Karate culture, the kind that keeps membership fees coming in the door. I was too young to understand this then. So while I wanted to train with Rick, I was instead being made to work with this soft lump of male.
Mike was at least 6'2" and we probably weighed about the same. But where I was refined in the fires of white hot youth he was lingering in the donut aisle. Point-fighting was made for situations like this.
I resented Mike for being soft. I resented Mike for interrupting my training. Most of all, I resented Mike for being average. So...why not just go ahead and make him better.
Trial by fire anyone?
Rick: HAJIME!!!
Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!
The boxer Roberto Duran once described hitting a man so hard it's as if he could feel the man break.
Rick told me several times that when the body is properly conditioned and positioned, the strike doesn't come as an extension of the body as must as you become an extension of the ground.
All I know is...
It wasn't supposed to connect.
When I throw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee, I throw it directly into the man's guard. If he's got a proper side stance it should go right into his blocking left arm. If he's smart and read the telegraphed notice of the oncoming slaughter he brings up both arms to absorb the blow. That's when my backfist is going to be the next thing he sees.
Unfortunately for Mike he was too tall and his block too high. It was a monster of a kick, even by my standards, but I was totally expecting to test his block. Instead, I tested his ribs. I even pulled back on it some towards the end when I realized what was about to happen, but to no avail. The kick connected as if the heavens themselves had come for him. So perfect was the kick I didn't even feel it. I followed through his body like it was so much air.
The response was immediate. Mike couldn't shout or cry out 'cuz he had no breath to give. Instead, he crumbled to the floor. By the looks of his writhing it was as if I'd kicked a black hole into his guts as his entire body seemed determined to fold right into the place of injury.
Laughing, Rick helped Mike to the locker room. His day was done. I went back to kicking the devil out of the heavy bag. Mike and Rick sat up front by the lobby's main office talking for a great while. Realizing I wasn't gonna get anymore training with Rick I skulked into the locker room and changed clothes.
I came out to muffled laughter between Rick and Mike.
"Show him!" Rick bade Mike. Chuckling, Mike lifted his shirt. What appeared to be the front four inches of my foot was painted on the bottom of his rib cage, down perhaps even to the veins.
Back at college that fall I let my membership lapse. I paid off the year, but I barely went back. I don't know why as I'd had a good time learning there. But the campus gym had a heavybag that I used to spend at least an hour a week kicking. At one point I do believe I'd kicked the bag enough times to deaden the nerves that I could kick a tree trunk at full strength and feel no pain. But I never used The Long Muh-WAH-Shee on another human being. It's probably just as well.
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee was way too easy to telegraph for a guy as weighted down with muscle as I was (220 lbs). But I was quick enough such that my opponent didn't have time to dodge. All they could do was stand there and absorb it in a block. By then I was already coming with the backfist over their guard. My sensei would actually tell my opponents about it and they'd still get caught. Especially if they screamed.
When I went to throw it against The Cop, I didn't even try to disguise it. I even telegraphed it a little extra by quickly spreading my feet a little before I went for it. However, instead of using my uber-deadly right leg, I used my left. Clearly I wanted this fight over since I didn't even use my ace technique to finish him off.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!!!!!!!!!
My left foot was always more accurate, but not as powerful. But The Cop was prepared. Both arms up on his right side he absorbed the blow. I wanted to come in for the backfist anyway just to see what he would do, but The Cop had his own trick up his sleeve.
The Cop knew I couldn't throw punches for contact. He also knew that I couldn't throw any hand techniques whatsoever unless they were obvious. But what I didn't see coming is the overhand ridgehand blow. Once I planted my left foot forward I was out of position for my right-handed backfist. The Cop never gave me a chance. I saw it coming like a screwball pitch from Willie Hernandez. Legs to chest to shoulder to elbow to wrist to my face. It was coming. Hard.
Inside, quietly, I laughed. We both knew he was using a technique I wasn't allowed to use. We both also knew he was using this technique to beat me. So not only was he beating me, he was bullying me; using the merits of his rank to trump a young upstart. As the hand came down directly on the ridge of my nose I did the only thing I could do. Flinch, yet again.
The blow came down on my face and it did connect. But the fact that I was moving so fast towards the floor saved me a broken nose. Instead, I just hit the mat hard. The Cop had his cheap victory and kept his bitchass gaggle of groupies and I lost. However, Rick pulled me aside afterwards and shook my hand. He knew what was up. Thankfully, so did I.
********************************************************************************
A month later, I threw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee again. I was a freshly christened blue belt. He was a green belt. It was clear from the start that I had him beat. I was harder, better, faster, and stronger than he was. Average Mike was probably your proto-typical accountant-type with a wife, a couple kids, and a hard on for chop-socky flicks. Instead of learning what martial arts was about, he signed up at the closest place he could find where they did a lot of kicking and screaming like in that one Karate Kid movie 'cuz his doctor'd told him he needed to get in shape or have a heart attack and he was too lazy to take up jogging.
Mike and me were the only two guys that ever showed up to the gym in the afternoon. So instead of running a full class with just two guys, Rick decided to point-fight us. Since my last go around with The Cop I was not too eager to take out anymore black belts. For a bunch of macho dudes, they got to be some SERIOUS bitchasses when they lost. All the whining and complaining got to be a bit much so I just avoided it altogether. Rick usually let me go ahead and do what I wanted. Not so much with Mike.
Unlike me, Mike had more profit potential. If he jumped belts fast enough he could probably tell his friends. His friends would come in and start training. In between weight training and workout sessions they'd shoot the sh*t and go out for beers afterwards. With Mike they could create another little hamlet of American Karate culture, the kind that keeps membership fees coming in the door. I was too young to understand this then. So while I wanted to train with Rick, I was instead being made to work with this soft lump of male.
Mike was at least 6'2" and we probably weighed about the same. But where I was refined in the fires of white hot youth he was lingering in the donut aisle. Point-fighting was made for situations like this.
I resented Mike for being soft. I resented Mike for interrupting my training. Most of all, I resented Mike for being average. So...why not just go ahead and make him better.
Trial by fire anyone?
Rick: HAJIME!!!
Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAA!!!
The boxer Roberto Duran once described hitting a man so hard it's as if he could feel the man break.
Rick told me several times that when the body is properly conditioned and positioned, the strike doesn't come as an extension of the body as must as you become an extension of the ground.
All I know is...
It wasn't supposed to connect.
When I throw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee, I throw it directly into the man's guard. If he's got a proper side stance it should go right into his blocking left arm. If he's smart and read the telegraphed notice of the oncoming slaughter he brings up both arms to absorb the blow. That's when my backfist is going to be the next thing he sees.
Unfortunately for Mike he was too tall and his block too high. It was a monster of a kick, even by my standards, but I was totally expecting to test his block. Instead, I tested his ribs. I even pulled back on it some towards the end when I realized what was about to happen, but to no avail. The kick connected as if the heavens themselves had come for him. So perfect was the kick I didn't even feel it. I followed through his body like it was so much air.
The response was immediate. Mike couldn't shout or cry out 'cuz he had no breath to give. Instead, he crumbled to the floor. By the looks of his writhing it was as if I'd kicked a black hole into his guts as his entire body seemed determined to fold right into the place of injury.
Laughing, Rick helped Mike to the locker room. His day was done. I went back to kicking the devil out of the heavy bag. Mike and Rick sat up front by the lobby's main office talking for a great while. Realizing I wasn't gonna get anymore training with Rick I skulked into the locker room and changed clothes.
I came out to muffled laughter between Rick and Mike.
"Show him!" Rick bade Mike. Chuckling, Mike lifted his shirt. What appeared to be the front four inches of my foot was painted on the bottom of his rib cage, down perhaps even to the veins.
Back at college that fall I let my membership lapse. I paid off the year, but I barely went back. I don't know why as I'd had a good time learning there. But the campus gym had a heavybag that I used to spend at least an hour a week kicking. At one point I do believe I'd kicked the bag enough times to deaden the nerves that I could kick a tree trunk at full strength and feel no pain. But I never used The Long Muh-WAH-Shee on another human being. It's probably just as well.
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee: Part 2
The cop was Italian. I know this because he said it a lot. He also, apparently, banged a lot of "broads." Again, I know this because he told us a lot. The Cop was 5'4" tall. At the time, I didn't know what a Napoleon Complex was. In retrospect, the guy was textbook.
The Cop was an ex-cop, but good luck convincing him of that. He talked about all his experiences like they were present-day activities; nothing like the boring security details he'd picked up after accepting early retirement. The perps he'd collared. The chases he'd run, or driven. The broads he'd banged. While I was kicking, punching, and sweating, he and the black belts spent general workout times talking about how awesome he'd been as a cop.
I beat two of his groupies in straight points. It went so quick I thought they were joking with me. I'd been good at a lot of things in life, but the ease with which I'd beaten them was embarrassing. One was a brown belt, the other, black. The Cop himself was a second degree black which meant he could teach. He was my next opponent. In the final match. One of us would win this mini-tournament. I was not hopeful. Not because I didn't believe in my abilities, but because it was too easy, so far, to be believable. I felt like I was being set up.
The Cop was going to be going for his third degree soon. His ego and reputation were on the line. I was 20 years old. But I didn't have to be thirty years my senior like he was in order to know this was gonna go poorly. In my world the teacher losing to the student would be a sign that the teacher had encountered a wonderful opportunity to grow his skill sets. In The Cop's world, it was victory of humiliation.
All this over lame-ass point fighting. Laughable now. But not then.
We lined up on opposite sides of our portion of mat. I faced him. He faced me. Bow. Face teacher. Bow. Face each other. Take stance.
HAJIME!!!
I stood straight up and didn't move. He hopped left and right. Then he hopped towards me a little. I took one soft step back and didn't move.
Most of the fighters liked to hop around like Muhammed Ali or somethin'. In boxing that makes sense. You're throwing punches. In between hops it takes less time to plant your feet and throw the punch. In Karate, not so much. We threw a lot of kicks. Legs are long and heavy. You need time to plant them before you can throw them. His hopping up and down was a show of preparedness, but it would get him caught. One sidekick and one backfist later I was up 2-0.
In high school I played goalkeeper. Then one day I realized I could defensive instructions all the way downfield. It was a ridiculous advantage since it helped my team maintain defensive composure in situations when other teams fell apart. It also meant that I had a pair of big, healthy lungs.
One time in class I yelled the loudest Bruce Lee-styled scream I could manage. The whole room paused. Both of my sensei's came out from the office and every guy in the locker room came out looking for "that loud motherf*ucker." I thought I'd done something wrong. The older sensei just shook his head and walked away. The younger one, Rick, put his hand on my shoulder and gave me advice I still use to this day.
"Use your advantages to your advantage."
The Cop had never heard me scream before. I used it to great advantage both times I scored. In the first point, I waited until he was jumping and jiving close to me.
Quick breath.
AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAAA!!!!!!
Mid-jump he lost his footing I'd startled him so. Sidekick to the gut. First blood.
The second time he knew it was coming so I went ahead and used it straight away after the match was re-started. He didn't fall for it, but he was too busy looking for it to pay attention to the fact that I was dodging everything he did. Kick? Block. Punch? Dodge.
BIG Quick Breath.
He braced. I jumped at him, backfist without contact. Second point.
At this point I knew I wasn't going to win this fight. Not because I doubted my skill. This guy needed this fight. His dignity was all wound up in it. The way he pounded his forehead in preparation for the next round I knew he absolutely had to win this fight. I like to teach people lessons and win and stuff, but I didn't like this guy enough to prove it. Besides, I'd demonstrated what I was capable of. Let him have it. Well...not really. I'm not gonna say I threw the fight, but I definitely throttled down.
The Cop came out like the Tasmanian Devil. Limbs and spins were everywhere. I tried to make it look good, but I'm sure Rick knew. Maneuvers I should have worked around I didn't. Blows I could have dodged, I blocked instead. To the inattentive it could have looked like I was gassed. To Rick and a few others, I was just not trying. And within minutes we were tied up.
He wanted the fight. Frankly, I wanted him to win. But I was not gonna just give it up to him. When the call to fight began though, I did not scream. I hadn't in the previous two rounds I'd lost either so he'd either forgotten about it or gotten over it. Either way, I wanted to make his ass earn that last point. I dodged everything, threw kicks, everything. Neither of us was connecting meaningfully. And with the match so close Rick was not gonna call the match on a pitty-pat connect.
Time for clarification. I was a green belt at this time. The Cop was a black belt. I was not allowed to punch. So how could I backfist? Because he was so wide open when I did it, it would have been ludicrous for me not to and not get credit for it. However, according to the rules of the dojo whites, yellows, and greens (me) were not allowed to throw punches until they hit blue (my next belt to test for). Even when point-fighting higher ranks.
I danced around The Cop as he threw everything he had. Sweat poured down his face. And at some point I decided I'd had enough. I screamed and threw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee.
The Long Muh-WAH-shee is a kick designed to be your most powerful. Most recognizable in Muy Thai, it's when you bring your back leg, presuming you have one shoulder pounted towards your opponent in a side-stance, up and try to connect it upside the head of your opponent. If you do it right it could cause a concussion. If you do it wrong you've just told your opponent you want to be blocked and punished for your insolence.
The Cop was an ex-cop, but good luck convincing him of that. He talked about all his experiences like they were present-day activities; nothing like the boring security details he'd picked up after accepting early retirement. The perps he'd collared. The chases he'd run, or driven. The broads he'd banged. While I was kicking, punching, and sweating, he and the black belts spent general workout times talking about how awesome he'd been as a cop.
I beat two of his groupies in straight points. It went so quick I thought they were joking with me. I'd been good at a lot of things in life, but the ease with which I'd beaten them was embarrassing. One was a brown belt, the other, black. The Cop himself was a second degree black which meant he could teach. He was my next opponent. In the final match. One of us would win this mini-tournament. I was not hopeful. Not because I didn't believe in my abilities, but because it was too easy, so far, to be believable. I felt like I was being set up.
The Cop was going to be going for his third degree soon. His ego and reputation were on the line. I was 20 years old. But I didn't have to be thirty years my senior like he was in order to know this was gonna go poorly. In my world the teacher losing to the student would be a sign that the teacher had encountered a wonderful opportunity to grow his skill sets. In The Cop's world, it was victory of humiliation.
All this over lame-ass point fighting. Laughable now. But not then.
We lined up on opposite sides of our portion of mat. I faced him. He faced me. Bow. Face teacher. Bow. Face each other. Take stance.
HAJIME!!!
I stood straight up and didn't move. He hopped left and right. Then he hopped towards me a little. I took one soft step back and didn't move.
Most of the fighters liked to hop around like Muhammed Ali or somethin'. In boxing that makes sense. You're throwing punches. In between hops it takes less time to plant your feet and throw the punch. In Karate, not so much. We threw a lot of kicks. Legs are long and heavy. You need time to plant them before you can throw them. His hopping up and down was a show of preparedness, but it would get him caught. One sidekick and one backfist later I was up 2-0.
In high school I played goalkeeper. Then one day I realized I could defensive instructions all the way downfield. It was a ridiculous advantage since it helped my team maintain defensive composure in situations when other teams fell apart. It also meant that I had a pair of big, healthy lungs.
One time in class I yelled the loudest Bruce Lee-styled scream I could manage. The whole room paused. Both of my sensei's came out from the office and every guy in the locker room came out looking for "that loud motherf*ucker." I thought I'd done something wrong. The older sensei just shook his head and walked away. The younger one, Rick, put his hand on my shoulder and gave me advice I still use to this day.
"Use your advantages to your advantage."
The Cop had never heard me scream before. I used it to great advantage both times I scored. In the first point, I waited until he was jumping and jiving close to me.
Quick breath.
AAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-YYAAAA!!!!!!
Mid-jump he lost his footing I'd startled him so. Sidekick to the gut. First blood.
The second time he knew it was coming so I went ahead and used it straight away after the match was re-started. He didn't fall for it, but he was too busy looking for it to pay attention to the fact that I was dodging everything he did. Kick? Block. Punch? Dodge.
BIG Quick Breath.
He braced. I jumped at him, backfist without contact. Second point.
At this point I knew I wasn't going to win this fight. Not because I doubted my skill. This guy needed this fight. His dignity was all wound up in it. The way he pounded his forehead in preparation for the next round I knew he absolutely had to win this fight. I like to teach people lessons and win and stuff, but I didn't like this guy enough to prove it. Besides, I'd demonstrated what I was capable of. Let him have it. Well...not really. I'm not gonna say I threw the fight, but I definitely throttled down.
The Cop came out like the Tasmanian Devil. Limbs and spins were everywhere. I tried to make it look good, but I'm sure Rick knew. Maneuvers I should have worked around I didn't. Blows I could have dodged, I blocked instead. To the inattentive it could have looked like I was gassed. To Rick and a few others, I was just not trying. And within minutes we were tied up.
He wanted the fight. Frankly, I wanted him to win. But I was not gonna just give it up to him. When the call to fight began though, I did not scream. I hadn't in the previous two rounds I'd lost either so he'd either forgotten about it or gotten over it. Either way, I wanted to make his ass earn that last point. I dodged everything, threw kicks, everything. Neither of us was connecting meaningfully. And with the match so close Rick was not gonna call the match on a pitty-pat connect.
Time for clarification. I was a green belt at this time. The Cop was a black belt. I was not allowed to punch. So how could I backfist? Because he was so wide open when I did it, it would have been ludicrous for me not to and not get credit for it. However, according to the rules of the dojo whites, yellows, and greens (me) were not allowed to throw punches until they hit blue (my next belt to test for). Even when point-fighting higher ranks.
I danced around The Cop as he threw everything he had. Sweat poured down his face. And at some point I decided I'd had enough. I screamed and threw The Long Muh-WAH-Shee.
The Long Muh-WAH-shee is a kick designed to be your most powerful. Most recognizable in Muy Thai, it's when you bring your back leg, presuming you have one shoulder pounted towards your opponent in a side-stance, up and try to connect it upside the head of your opponent. If you do it right it could cause a concussion. If you do it wrong you've just told your opponent you want to be blocked and punished for your insolence.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Long Muh-WAH-Shee: Part 1
It's never supposed to connect.
It was quite the commitment for my first year of college, but he payment plan was reasonable and I was working a lot so my Dad let me do it. Twelve hundred dollars total. A hundred a month. Working one summer I could pay it all off without having to work my sophomore year of college. My dad, frowning, co-signed the agreement and it was done.
I was going to take one year's training at American Karate.
I don't know how Un-American Karate went, but the guy I was training under was a world champion several times over and had developed a system of kicks and punches that made any fight consisting of kicks and punches more likely to run in your favor. Unfortunately, it required a shedload of conditioning and a lot of point fighting.
Point-fighting is the martial arts equivalent of eating cake without sugar, pie without filling, steak without...steak. Unlike all other fight sports, point-fighting was more about demonstrating your mastery of circumstances than actually being skilled. To score a point while point-fighting, all you really had to do was demonstrate that you COULD hit your opponent if you wanted to. So if you make like you're going to hit an opponents wide open abdomen after he/she over extended a punch or kick, the point was yours. Three of them bad boys and you either moved on to the next round or collected a nice, tall, fakeass gold trophy.
The problem with point-fighting is that the strikes were totally up to interpretation by the judges. If you were lucky you had three of them positioned at various vantage points and two of them had to agree for a point to be scored. But that's at Nationals. Mostly I point-fought at my local gym or at some university's gym while going for a promotion (raising the color of your belt to the next level).
I took to point-fighting quickly, mostly because I'm very gullible. If a guy tried to fake me, I reacted. And in point-fighting it don't matter if you fake. It matters if it LOOKS like you connect. And it looked like I was connecting a lot. Especially with black belts. They were none too pleased.
Black belts think that they run the show. Technically they do, but most of them just memorized the proper forms and went to every test available. Whether they could apply the skills necessary was immaterial. They'd paid their money and showed up enough, but God they were gonna get their black belt.
One night we had a point-fighting mini-tournament to see where everyone was. It was mostly a test of the white/green belts (me) to see how they faired against more experienced fighters. In a real fight, flinching allows for enough reaction time to bite on someone's feint and recover since they're not really supposed to hid you. So in this mini-tournament I dominated. I was athletic, quick, and talented of course. But mostly I bit on every fake maneuver. They tried to counter with someone else 'cuz they didn't expect me to be so easily faked, but by then I'd figured it out and had my fist next to their face. Demonstration of dominance was as good as gold, so I scored point after point after point.
Three black belts later, I met up with The Cop.
It was quite the commitment for my first year of college, but he payment plan was reasonable and I was working a lot so my Dad let me do it. Twelve hundred dollars total. A hundred a month. Working one summer I could pay it all off without having to work my sophomore year of college. My dad, frowning, co-signed the agreement and it was done.
I was going to take one year's training at American Karate.
I don't know how Un-American Karate went, but the guy I was training under was a world champion several times over and had developed a system of kicks and punches that made any fight consisting of kicks and punches more likely to run in your favor. Unfortunately, it required a shedload of conditioning and a lot of point fighting.
Point-fighting is the martial arts equivalent of eating cake without sugar, pie without filling, steak without...steak. Unlike all other fight sports, point-fighting was more about demonstrating your mastery of circumstances than actually being skilled. To score a point while point-fighting, all you really had to do was demonstrate that you COULD hit your opponent if you wanted to. So if you make like you're going to hit an opponents wide open abdomen after he/she over extended a punch or kick, the point was yours. Three of them bad boys and you either moved on to the next round or collected a nice, tall, fakeass gold trophy.
The problem with point-fighting is that the strikes were totally up to interpretation by the judges. If you were lucky you had three of them positioned at various vantage points and two of them had to agree for a point to be scored. But that's at Nationals. Mostly I point-fought at my local gym or at some university's gym while going for a promotion (raising the color of your belt to the next level).
I took to point-fighting quickly, mostly because I'm very gullible. If a guy tried to fake me, I reacted. And in point-fighting it don't matter if you fake. It matters if it LOOKS like you connect. And it looked like I was connecting a lot. Especially with black belts. They were none too pleased.
Black belts think that they run the show. Technically they do, but most of them just memorized the proper forms and went to every test available. Whether they could apply the skills necessary was immaterial. They'd paid their money and showed up enough, but God they were gonna get their black belt.
One night we had a point-fighting mini-tournament to see where everyone was. It was mostly a test of the white/green belts (me) to see how they faired against more experienced fighters. In a real fight, flinching allows for enough reaction time to bite on someone's feint and recover since they're not really supposed to hid you. So in this mini-tournament I dominated. I was athletic, quick, and talented of course. But mostly I bit on every fake maneuver. They tried to counter with someone else 'cuz they didn't expect me to be so easily faked, but by then I'd figured it out and had my fist next to their face. Demonstration of dominance was as good as gold, so I scored point after point after point.
Three black belts later, I met up with The Cop.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Piggin' Out At Hog's Palace
Oh. My. Goodness. The passion of our listeners came out in full force last night at Hog's Palace and I was NOT prepared. People saying hello, people drinkin' beers, people sipping drinks, people yelling at me for not getting to spin the wheel, people yelling at me for not winning anything for spinning the wheel, people who loved Anarchy, who loved Hollow Drive, passionate for Spiral Crush, lovin' Throttle Body, and weeping openly of their love for Sponge!! Good grief. It was a madhouse.
I was not ready for the enthusiastic crush of love from the Q106 listeners who came through and for everyone else who just wanted to party no matter who was there. It was a magical night and I've got tons of pictures to prove it. Wow. Thanks guys. You gave me somethin' special last night. Something I'll never forget!
I was not ready for the enthusiastic crush of love from the Q106 listeners who came through and for everyone else who just wanted to party no matter who was there. It was a magical night and I've got tons of pictures to prove it. Wow. Thanks guys. You gave me somethin' special last night. Something I'll never forget!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I Can Feel It
It gets stronger every day. That compulsion inside a man that makes it more difficult to place yourself inside a woman, finish, and be satisfied is now more an obnoxious afterthought than a driving force. The boy in me is giving way to the man he wants to be.
Perhaps I'm talkin' out of my arse since I've never really carnally had a woman, but where once it was fun to fantasize of short-lived passion I find myself yearning still for more. It's like eating a steak without potatoes. A meal without dessert. A challenging videogame with no final boss. A book with no finite ending (DAMN YOU George R. R. Martin!!!). A kiss with no embrace.
Could it be I'm mature enough to need some love with my lust?
I hope not. If so then clearly I've betrayed my id. He, my id, peaked at 13 with many MANY wide-eyed dreamless nights of impure obsessions. He's the stone-faced sweaty-palmed truth of my youth that made it both impossible to talk to girls and impossible to ignore them.
Sixth grade was the apex of spirit-filled recesses and long, hot, fun summers with my neighborhood homies. Seventh grade was the start of morning showers, morning wood, and mourning recess. Girls that wore shorts under long dresses and bland, masculine colors had effortlessly converted to see-through blouses, short skirts, and makeup. It wasn't even a fair fight. Frankly, I don't know how I survived.
But those days are long gone and I want more. The weight of it plays on me like a bucket filling with water at the back of my mind. And with every daily drip I feel the weight all the more. Eventually it will become unbearable and I'll doggedly pursue my one, tender, true. Or I'll bury it all underneath heroine and whores. Whatever comes first.
Perhaps I'm talkin' out of my arse since I've never really carnally had a woman, but where once it was fun to fantasize of short-lived passion I find myself yearning still for more. It's like eating a steak without potatoes. A meal without dessert. A challenging videogame with no final boss. A book with no finite ending (DAMN YOU George R. R. Martin!!!). A kiss with no embrace.
Could it be I'm mature enough to need some love with my lust?
I hope not. If so then clearly I've betrayed my id. He, my id, peaked at 13 with many MANY wide-eyed dreamless nights of impure obsessions. He's the stone-faced sweaty-palmed truth of my youth that made it both impossible to talk to girls and impossible to ignore them.
Sixth grade was the apex of spirit-filled recesses and long, hot, fun summers with my neighborhood homies. Seventh grade was the start of morning showers, morning wood, and mourning recess. Girls that wore shorts under long dresses and bland, masculine colors had effortlessly converted to see-through blouses, short skirts, and makeup. It wasn't even a fair fight. Frankly, I don't know how I survived.
But those days are long gone and I want more. The weight of it plays on me like a bucket filling with water at the back of my mind. And with every daily drip I feel the weight all the more. Eventually it will become unbearable and I'll doggedly pursue my one, tender, true. Or I'll bury it all underneath heroine and whores. Whatever comes first.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Jobs I Worked / Lesson I Learned
Caddy At A Private Golf Club / Never tell the most powerful man at the club that you can't caddy for him because you have to go to church, even if it's true.
File Clerk / Chris Rock said it best: You know what it means when they pay you minimum wage? You know what they're trying to tell you? It's like: "Hey, if I could pay you less, I would. But it's against the law."
Church Janitor / Religious people are just as dirty as non-religious people.
Lettuce Refiller in Dorm Cafeteria / Sorority girls love to put lettuce on their plate. They also love putting most if it in the garbage too.
Videogame Arcade Changer / Changing dollars into quarters for a living is, hands down, the fastest way to learn about how the world really works.
Food Delivery Boy / The service of having food brought to you is getting cheaper and cheaper as the dollar decreases in value. Thank goodness the price of gas is going down. Wait...
Upscale Restaurant Table Busser / The employees are just as delusional and arrogant as the customers. At least we got out of work at 10.
Bartender / The only things separating me from the neighborhood drug dealer were taxes and a uniform.
Crowd Control At A Major Entertainment Venue / Knowing that a mini-mag flashlight is all that protects you from thousands of sod-throwing, mosh-pit slamming hooligans will change your life.
Bouncer / The same girl that dumped you for being "too forward" will whore herself out over a $5 cover charge. Welcome to America.
Strip Club DJ / Girls are just like guys except for when you tell girls they look pretty they show you boobies.
Radio Sales / I'm better at being a ho than a pimp.
File Clerk / Chris Rock said it best: You know what it means when they pay you minimum wage? You know what they're trying to tell you? It's like: "Hey, if I could pay you less, I would. But it's against the law."
Church Janitor / Religious people are just as dirty as non-religious people.
Lettuce Refiller in Dorm Cafeteria / Sorority girls love to put lettuce on their plate. They also love putting most if it in the garbage too.
Videogame Arcade Changer / Changing dollars into quarters for a living is, hands down, the fastest way to learn about how the world really works.
Food Delivery Boy / The service of having food brought to you is getting cheaper and cheaper as the dollar decreases in value. Thank goodness the price of gas is going down. Wait...
Upscale Restaurant Table Busser / The employees are just as delusional and arrogant as the customers. At least we got out of work at 10.
Bartender / The only things separating me from the neighborhood drug dealer were taxes and a uniform.
Crowd Control At A Major Entertainment Venue / Knowing that a mini-mag flashlight is all that protects you from thousands of sod-throwing, mosh-pit slamming hooligans will change your life.
Bouncer / The same girl that dumped you for being "too forward" will whore herself out over a $5 cover charge. Welcome to America.
Strip Club DJ / Girls are just like guys except for when you tell girls they look pretty they show you boobies.
Radio Sales / I'm better at being a ho than a pimp.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday's Good Thing That Went Wrong
Kids Entertainment
Breasts. Pert. Firm. Lovely. They didn't sit on her chest so much
as stand, at attention, alert, brown nipples perfectly placed in the
bottom third of the breast, evenly spaced, wonderful. She was
standing on a large rock in front of a waterfall, her face a mask of
innocence, ignorant to the magical effect she was conjuring with her
powerfully sexual visage.
He, like her, was an actor. But in that moment I'm sure that he, like
me, was trapped within his masculinity, impelled to do nothing more
than stare in open-mouthed worship. They co-starred in a film called
"Sheena: Queen of the Jungle", an embarrassingly foolish film*.
The movie was a ludicrously stupid attempt to make a star of Tanya
Roberts and her craze-inducing hotness, but all it really did was make
a man out of me. I was in elementary school when the movie came out
so I didn't know why I liked looking at her since girls my age didn't
look like that. But my body understood.
Childhood is a rehearsal for adulthood. Yes, it's more an adept
simulation since you don't have to pay your own bills or make your own
way (in most cases), but the principles are almost exactly the same
for one and the other:
1) We wake up early, every day, to go go into a place where we will be given a large set of tasks.
2) We will be expected to achieve at the tasks given. The various levels of achievement will determine our social rank.
3) Authorities are placed above us to ensure we work within the system present to adjust our placement and to make sure we find commonality amongst those of similar social rank.
4) We will develop and maintain friendships with people we like and learn
to function socially with those we don't.
5) We will seek out romance within these social circles so as to find
emotional completeness and personal validation.
Nowadays we treat our children like they're morons. "Sheena" was rated PG. Tanya Roberts was naked at LEAST twice and topless once more in the movie. Can you imagine a PG movie with exposed nipples and full bush coming out this summer? PIXAR makes The Incredibles which has NO nudity, NO ONE dies, and NO profanity...but it's rated PG? It's a whole other world for films today.
I remember a movie called The Neverending Story. There are a few deaths, a little profanity (from kids, but still), dark storylines, and the creepiest flying entity that ever existed in fiction, but it was rated PG. Now? It would be branded PG-13 right along with The Dark Knight. With the frightful homicidal menace created by Heath Ledger's Joker does that make sense to you? And remember, The Godfather is only a step up from that. What message do we send to our kids when we baby them with light fare before we inundate them with sex and violence? Is it any wonder our adolescents are so eager to grope for adult responsibilities WELL before they're ready?
Television shows for kids were also more mature then than now. Before the fluorescent blandness of "Saved By The Bell", "Diff'rent Strokes" approached dozens of controversial subjects from racial identity to class discrimination to pedophilia to bulimia and all while making you laugh heartily with their oddball family.
Other shows went just as far, if not further. "All In The Family" virtually bombarded us with racial issues as the main character Archie Bunker dealt with his own negative inclinations towards people of color...and everyone else too.
"The Facts of Life" was another show that used humor to share life lessons. It was about four girls going to boarding school, all coming from different backgrounds. One of the girls dealt with an attempted rape while another lost her virginity.
And "Mr. Belvedere" was about a British manservant that was working for an American family. Sounds like a simple context with no possibility for complexity. "Mr. Belvedere" was the television show was the first to introduce me to AIDS.
I'm not saying we need to dump adult themes and concepts on children as early as possible. I'm only suggesting that their young, but perceptive, intellects need be respected. Denying them the facts on adult responsibilities is an excellent way to ensure that they never learn to manage them properly.
Does that mean we need to throw a nipple or two (dozen) into Harry Potter? I don't know. Is Emma Watson 18 yet?
*I've watched "Sheena: Queen of the Jungle" thirty-two times and I don't even own it...yet.
Breasts. Pert. Firm. Lovely. They didn't sit on her chest so much
as stand, at attention, alert, brown nipples perfectly placed in the
bottom third of the breast, evenly spaced, wonderful. She was
standing on a large rock in front of a waterfall, her face a mask of
innocence, ignorant to the magical effect she was conjuring with her
powerfully sexual visage.
He, like her, was an actor. But in that moment I'm sure that he, like
me, was trapped within his masculinity, impelled to do nothing more
than stare in open-mouthed worship. They co-starred in a film called
"Sheena: Queen of the Jungle", an embarrassingly foolish film*.
The movie was a ludicrously stupid attempt to make a star of Tanya
Roberts and her craze-inducing hotness, but all it really did was make
a man out of me. I was in elementary school when the movie came out
so I didn't know why I liked looking at her since girls my age didn't
look like that. But my body understood.
Childhood is a rehearsal for adulthood. Yes, it's more an adept
simulation since you don't have to pay your own bills or make your own
way (in most cases), but the principles are almost exactly the same
for one and the other:
1) We wake up early, every day, to go go into a place where we will be given a large set of tasks.
2) We will be expected to achieve at the tasks given. The various levels of achievement will determine our social rank.
3) Authorities are placed above us to ensure we work within the system present to adjust our placement and to make sure we find commonality amongst those of similar social rank.
4) We will develop and maintain friendships with people we like and learn
to function socially with those we don't.
5) We will seek out romance within these social circles so as to find
emotional completeness and personal validation.
Nowadays we treat our children like they're morons. "Sheena" was rated PG. Tanya Roberts was naked at LEAST twice and topless once more in the movie. Can you imagine a PG movie with exposed nipples and full bush coming out this summer? PIXAR makes The Incredibles which has NO nudity, NO ONE dies, and NO profanity...but it's rated PG? It's a whole other world for films today.
I remember a movie called The Neverending Story. There are a few deaths, a little profanity (from kids, but still), dark storylines, and the creepiest flying entity that ever existed in fiction, but it was rated PG. Now? It would be branded PG-13 right along with The Dark Knight. With the frightful homicidal menace created by Heath Ledger's Joker does that make sense to you? And remember, The Godfather is only a step up from that. What message do we send to our kids when we baby them with light fare before we inundate them with sex and violence? Is it any wonder our adolescents are so eager to grope for adult responsibilities WELL before they're ready?
Television shows for kids were also more mature then than now. Before the fluorescent blandness of "Saved By The Bell", "Diff'rent Strokes" approached dozens of controversial subjects from racial identity to class discrimination to pedophilia to bulimia and all while making you laugh heartily with their oddball family.
Other shows went just as far, if not further. "All In The Family" virtually bombarded us with racial issues as the main character Archie Bunker dealt with his own negative inclinations towards people of color...and everyone else too.
"The Facts of Life" was another show that used humor to share life lessons. It was about four girls going to boarding school, all coming from different backgrounds. One of the girls dealt with an attempted rape while another lost her virginity.
And "Mr. Belvedere" was about a British manservant that was working for an American family. Sounds like a simple context with no possibility for complexity. "Mr. Belvedere" was the television show was the first to introduce me to AIDS.
I'm not saying we need to dump adult themes and concepts on children as early as possible. I'm only suggesting that their young, but perceptive, intellects need be respected. Denying them the facts on adult responsibilities is an excellent way to ensure that they never learn to manage them properly.
Does that mean we need to throw a nipple or two (dozen) into Harry Potter? I don't know. Is Emma Watson 18 yet?
*I've watched "Sheena: Queen of the Jungle" thirty-two times and I don't even own it...yet.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Just Thinkin' Out Loud
Written two hours after the midnight end of Memorial Day:
Today is a good night to be drunk. As the sun dips below the horizon to lay amongst its heavenly harem the wind picks up. The breeze is relaxed. Strong enough to tickle the trees, making them sway with their subtle chuckles, but light enough to cool your freshly perspired brow of the otherwordly heat brought on by this deliciously delicious liquid fire.
My parents gave me a Macbook out of the blue. I don't know if it was because I'm a good son or because I'm spoiled, but I smile just the same typing on it like I am now. The alcohol makes the worlds of words flow easier. Like a breakdancer trying to seduce a ladyfriend with moves as fluid as the waters of Lake Michigan my mind fires soft synaptical seduction to make my fingers do precisely what it desires.
It's on nights like these that I feel my loneliness hardest. Enjoyment is meant to be shared and I'm having the time of my life. Writing on my porch gives me a piece of mind unlike anything else. The only thing better would be sharing it with someone. A lovely lass, fine as the sands of Hawaii and as lovely as the Rockies during a cloudless sunrise.
It's what we're all meant for really. Love. True love. It's an easy concept to imagine but near impossible to bring about. Someone who loves you for you and wants to help you be better. An ideal that we write songs, books, and movies about to no end should be as easily accessible as a pack of smokes or a greasyass hamburger. But it's not. Makes no sense to me. Do you understand?
Anyway, if you're gonna have a buzz alone make it a strong one. That way your senses aren't acute enough to focus on the lackings. The gaping holes in your heart . The empty hands desirous of the soft, giving flesh of another. Mouth closed, engaging no other minds or lips but those of the cold, dispassionate rocks glass.
Eeeeeyup. Nights like these are made for me. Forgetting my loneliness I can focus on the kid down the street in Spiderman pajamis, still up at this hour, and the parents who ain't watchin' him. The cat lady coughed inside her house. Amongst the several dozen cats she is either caring for or holding captive in her backyard I'm shocked I actually heard it. The car across the street is unfamiliar to me, but the one next to my house isn't. It belongs to the boyfriend of the large-breasted be-spectacled neighbor who is so keen to care for a cat that clearly despises her.
Nights like these are like meditation. A reboot for the mind where one can just sit down and let nature restore all the default settings anew, refreshed, ready for another round of corporate drudgery and minutiae minding. So, for right now, while I have the moment I'll take a deeeeeep breath.
*DEEEEP BREATH*
Aaahhh. So much better. Gimme the invisible touch of nature's hand any day. It's been a longass week and a hardass weekend. Thank God for tonight. Thank God for the breeze. Thank God for this computer. And thank God for the alcohol. I am blessed beyond imagining. Hallelujah. *Amen*
Today is a good night to be drunk. As the sun dips below the horizon to lay amongst its heavenly harem the wind picks up. The breeze is relaxed. Strong enough to tickle the trees, making them sway with their subtle chuckles, but light enough to cool your freshly perspired brow of the otherwordly heat brought on by this deliciously delicious liquid fire.
My parents gave me a Macbook out of the blue. I don't know if it was because I'm a good son or because I'm spoiled, but I smile just the same typing on it like I am now. The alcohol makes the worlds of words flow easier. Like a breakdancer trying to seduce a ladyfriend with moves as fluid as the waters of Lake Michigan my mind fires soft synaptical seduction to make my fingers do precisely what it desires.
It's on nights like these that I feel my loneliness hardest. Enjoyment is meant to be shared and I'm having the time of my life. Writing on my porch gives me a piece of mind unlike anything else. The only thing better would be sharing it with someone. A lovely lass, fine as the sands of Hawaii and as lovely as the Rockies during a cloudless sunrise.
It's what we're all meant for really. Love. True love. It's an easy concept to imagine but near impossible to bring about. Someone who loves you for you and wants to help you be better. An ideal that we write songs, books, and movies about to no end should be as easily accessible as a pack of smokes or a greasyass hamburger. But it's not. Makes no sense to me. Do you understand?
Anyway, if you're gonna have a buzz alone make it a strong one. That way your senses aren't acute enough to focus on the lackings. The gaping holes in your heart . The empty hands desirous of the soft, giving flesh of another. Mouth closed, engaging no other minds or lips but those of the cold, dispassionate rocks glass.
Eeeeeyup. Nights like these are made for me. Forgetting my loneliness I can focus on the kid down the street in Spiderman pajamis, still up at this hour, and the parents who ain't watchin' him. The cat lady coughed inside her house. Amongst the several dozen cats she is either caring for or holding captive in her backyard I'm shocked I actually heard it. The car across the street is unfamiliar to me, but the one next to my house isn't. It belongs to the boyfriend of the large-breasted be-spectacled neighbor who is so keen to care for a cat that clearly despises her.
Nights like these are like meditation. A reboot for the mind where one can just sit down and let nature restore all the default settings anew, refreshed, ready for another round of corporate drudgery and minutiae minding. So, for right now, while I have the moment I'll take a deeeeeep breath.
*DEEEEP BREATH*
Aaahhh. So much better. Gimme the invisible touch of nature's hand any day. It's been a longass week and a hardass weekend. Thank God for tonight. Thank God for the breeze. Thank God for this computer. And thank God for the alcohol. I am blessed beyond imagining. Hallelujah. *Amen*
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Too Young To Get Married
She was one of those young women that get overlooked at first glance: a short and skinny mid-40's housewife, she was 108lbs. of nothing special. Then I looked again.
The diminutive clothing was part-uniform and part-tactical camouflage. Her body wasn't "short and skinny", it was petite and lean. Maintained by either a high metabolism or Sensei-level StairMaster-ing she'd somehow managed to fight off the tricks of nature to retain her fighting form from high school.
She hid the good stuff under a blue apron the grocery required. Her lime green polo underneath it hung loose enough to disguise the bustline, but not the waistline. It was tucked into jeans that hung carefully on her soft, womanly hips but spread too far to reveal anything else. Looking at her sent my mind spinning around hints and allegory, pouring over all her physical details such as to stir fantasies about what she does when that blue apron hits the floor.
I'm lazy so I go grocery shopping every week. Unlike most people who seem to enjoy lugging hundreds of grocery bags into their homes once a month, I prefer to get it done with two or three bags once a week. I'd been at work, but I had some time still before I had to be on air. The grocery store was just across the street and I'd finished all my pre-air responsibilities. Off I went.
I was done in five minutes: Cabbage rolls, Mexican rice, fruits, chicken, soap, toothpaste, and I was walking up to the front to check out. She was waiting for me, all smiles. While she scanned my goods...wow...yeah, while she scanned my goods we spoke general pleasantries.
I wear one silver ring on the middle finger of each hand. I don't know why, but for whatever reason my mind insisted on it one day several years ago and I bought them.
"Oh, on your MIDDLE fingers. Ok. I thought you looked too young to be married!"
*Huh?*
"Ah! Heh heh, thanks!"
She spotted 'em while I was signing the credit card slip. I should have taken it as a compliment, but I couldn't. On the way back to my car I found reason after reason to discredit any favorable intent:
1) Calm down, everybody's nice in that grocery store.
2) Dude, you know she's probably half-blind, right?
3) Did you check behind you? Who knows who was there?
4) Probably a manager. Crowd was kinda thin. Maybe she's trying to increase return customership?
5) Maybe she knows I'm on the radio? I AM a celebrity now.
6) Did you look close? Maybe she had the crazy eyes?
7) Three words: New. Baby. Daddy.
8) You're three times her size. She was probably terrified!
9) Maybe her credit's bad and she needs a co-signer on a new car/new house/new implants?...
It went on and on. Odd thing is, I'm confident in myself and how I look. So why discredit her statement? Why would I care enough to spend so much mental doing so? Plus...I AM a celebrity. Shux, I'm hovering around local superstar now. Why get so peppered over a statement someone said in passing?
What bothers me most though is that I missed out on a PRIME flirting opportunity. Usually it takes some doing to turn my Flirt Switch to the "OFF" position, but somehow this cute little dame caught me without my Juju-Mooshoo. For that I am MOST ashamed.
So...I'm going back next week. Same time. Same place. I'm always good for an adventure.
The diminutive clothing was part-uniform and part-tactical camouflage. Her body wasn't "short and skinny", it was petite and lean. Maintained by either a high metabolism or Sensei-level StairMaster-ing she'd somehow managed to fight off the tricks of nature to retain her fighting form from high school.
She hid the good stuff under a blue apron the grocery required. Her lime green polo underneath it hung loose enough to disguise the bustline, but not the waistline. It was tucked into jeans that hung carefully on her soft, womanly hips but spread too far to reveal anything else. Looking at her sent my mind spinning around hints and allegory, pouring over all her physical details such as to stir fantasies about what she does when that blue apron hits the floor.
I'm lazy so I go grocery shopping every week. Unlike most people who seem to enjoy lugging hundreds of grocery bags into their homes once a month, I prefer to get it done with two or three bags once a week. I'd been at work, but I had some time still before I had to be on air. The grocery store was just across the street and I'd finished all my pre-air responsibilities. Off I went.
I was done in five minutes: Cabbage rolls, Mexican rice, fruits, chicken, soap, toothpaste, and I was walking up to the front to check out. She was waiting for me, all smiles. While she scanned my goods...wow...yeah, while she scanned my goods we spoke general pleasantries.
I wear one silver ring on the middle finger of each hand. I don't know why, but for whatever reason my mind insisted on it one day several years ago and I bought them.
"Oh, on your MIDDLE fingers. Ok. I thought you looked too young to be married!"
*Huh?*
"Ah! Heh heh, thanks!"
She spotted 'em while I was signing the credit card slip. I should have taken it as a compliment, but I couldn't. On the way back to my car I found reason after reason to discredit any favorable intent:
1) Calm down, everybody's nice in that grocery store.
2) Dude, you know she's probably half-blind, right?
3) Did you check behind you? Who knows who was there?
4) Probably a manager. Crowd was kinda thin. Maybe she's trying to increase return customership?
5) Maybe she knows I'm on the radio? I AM a celebrity now.
6) Did you look close? Maybe she had the crazy eyes?
7) Three words: New. Baby. Daddy.
8) You're three times her size. She was probably terrified!
9) Maybe her credit's bad and she needs a co-signer on a new car/new house/new implants?...
It went on and on. Odd thing is, I'm confident in myself and how I look. So why discredit her statement? Why would I care enough to spend so much mental doing so? Plus...I AM a celebrity. Shux, I'm hovering around local superstar now. Why get so peppered over a statement someone said in passing?
What bothers me most though is that I missed out on a PRIME flirting opportunity. Usually it takes some doing to turn my Flirt Switch to the "OFF" position, but somehow this cute little dame caught me without my Juju-Mooshoo. For that I am MOST ashamed.
So...I'm going back next week. Same time. Same place. I'm always good for an adventure.
Bone-Chilling Wednesday Wonderment
If you don't feel every inch of the first four minutes, then you may be a little broken inside.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Just When I Thought...
I was done being angry with these idiots.
REPORT: Cheney says Bush left GM bankruptcy for the next guy
REPORT: Cheney says Bush left GM bankruptcy for the next guy
Monday, June 8, 2009
Monday's Good Thing That Went Wrong:
MTV
Where once we watched normal-looking VJ's, music videos, technicolor promos, and out-of-control Spring Break Parties we have been overrun with the wet dreams of the beautiful people.
The gritty flavor of New York used to dominate popular culture from Headbanger's Ball to Yo! MTV Raps. Now, orange-skinned fake 'n' bake soccer moms and their spoiled broods determine what's fashionable through fakeass reality television while boys with pointy hair and skinny jeans play "rock music".
I was never a fan of long hair, makeup, and spandex. But there was no denying the supercharged masculinity of hair metal or the bare-chested, throaty magic of the blues-y, soul-powered rock that preceded it. And it was into this era that a young boy watched music be formed and reformed and translated through a channel dedicated to the celebration of the Treble and Bass clefs.
Watching MTV hurts now. Not just because it's no longer for me. More because what happened to MTV is what happens to all things: Bad people move in and steal the soul of the thing. The cancer of the Steroid Era hurt baseball. David Stern sold the soul of basketball to the highest bidder. And football is more concerned with having the latest American Idol participant sing the National Anthem than taking care of the men who bashed their heads to pieces in their service.
The death of MTV is the path all good things take to die. Thankfully their souls live on is us. But as I live and grow and think...I'm not so sure that's a good thing anymore.
Oh well. There's always SCinemax on Friday nights. And I hear Beach Blanket Bimbos 23 is gonna set the record for most nipples-per-minute!! BOOM!
Where once we watched normal-looking VJ's, music videos, technicolor promos, and out-of-control Spring Break Parties we have been overrun with the wet dreams of the beautiful people.
The gritty flavor of New York used to dominate popular culture from Headbanger's Ball to Yo! MTV Raps. Now, orange-skinned fake 'n' bake soccer moms and their spoiled broods determine what's fashionable through fakeass reality television while boys with pointy hair and skinny jeans play "rock music".
I was never a fan of long hair, makeup, and spandex. But there was no denying the supercharged masculinity of hair metal or the bare-chested, throaty magic of the blues-y, soul-powered rock that preceded it. And it was into this era that a young boy watched music be formed and reformed and translated through a channel dedicated to the celebration of the Treble and Bass clefs.
Watching MTV hurts now. Not just because it's no longer for me. More because what happened to MTV is what happens to all things: Bad people move in and steal the soul of the thing. The cancer of the Steroid Era hurt baseball. David Stern sold the soul of basketball to the highest bidder. And football is more concerned with having the latest American Idol participant sing the National Anthem than taking care of the men who bashed their heads to pieces in their service.
The death of MTV is the path all good things take to die. Thankfully their souls live on is us. But as I live and grow and think...I'm not so sure that's a good thing anymore.
Oh well. There's always SCinemax on Friday nights. And I hear Beach Blanket Bimbos 23 is gonna set the record for most nipples-per-minute!! BOOM!
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
*Sigh* I'm Texting Again
Due to circumstances beyond my control I am, once again, texting. Not only that, but I've increased my plan from 400 texts to 1000. How can I justify this after all the whining and complaining I did before? Simple.
I'm a hypocrite.
Heh heh. That's only part of it though.
Firstly, I've decreased the amount of minutes I can use. Down to 300 from 600 this ensures that I use the phone almost exclusively for emergencies or for setting up future phone calls on phones I don't have to watch my minutes on.
Lastly, I've had some circumstances go down that made it imperative that I get texting back. And since I'm paying less now for my overall plan, the addition of texting made the entire package more sensible.
Anyway, yeah, I got texting back.
I'm a hypocrite.
Heh heh. That's only part of it though.
Firstly, I've decreased the amount of minutes I can use. Down to 300 from 600 this ensures that I use the phone almost exclusively for emergencies or for setting up future phone calls on phones I don't have to watch my minutes on.
Lastly, I've had some circumstances go down that made it imperative that I get texting back. And since I'm paying less now for my overall plan, the addition of texting made the entire package more sensible.
Anyway, yeah, I got texting back.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Put The Burger DOWN
Why are people eating while they drive? Last I checked, driving was still one of the most dangerous activities we undertake on a daily basis. Think about it. All it takes is one mistake by some dummy to send you screeching into a ditch in a fiery death trap. Statistically, flying is safer. Flying. FLYING. Yeah, that thing you do when you get into an even bigger, rocket fuel powered, potential fiery death trap. Yet, your goony butt can't put that McBurger down, can you?
Most people can't drive safely with two hands and two feet. I've seen it. All the swaying and rapid lane changes while texting, putting on makeup, changing cds, lighting cigarettes, it's crazy! I've got a relatively clean driving record *knock on wood* and I attribute that to a firm believe in the need to focus on the road in front of me, not on the text on my phone from that one chick who promised to do that one thing that me likey so much. I mean, if I really wanna check it I can always pull over, right?
Of course, in my youth I was not above common driving delinquency. Changing clothes down to the underwear, eating, drinking (NON-alcoholic beverages), talking on the phone, the usual suspects. But now is not the time for such risque behavior people! The roads are terrible, potholes are bigger, cars are wider, and the weather is more ridiculouser than normal. Why aren't people taking better care as they drive to avoid careening into other non-paying-attention drivers?
All I know is that I'll keep my eye open for these nibbling nitwits. Hopefully, if I'm lucky, I'll get to see one of 'em flip their car by doing something stupid. My bad, I don't mean that. Ok, yeah I do.
Most people can't drive safely with two hands and two feet. I've seen it. All the swaying and rapid lane changes while texting, putting on makeup, changing cds, lighting cigarettes, it's crazy! I've got a relatively clean driving record *knock on wood* and I attribute that to a firm believe in the need to focus on the road in front of me, not on the text on my phone from that one chick who promised to do that one thing that me likey so much. I mean, if I really wanna check it I can always pull over, right?
Of course, in my youth I was not above common driving delinquency. Changing clothes down to the underwear, eating, drinking (NON-alcoholic beverages), talking on the phone, the usual suspects. But now is not the time for such risque behavior people! The roads are terrible, potholes are bigger, cars are wider, and the weather is more ridiculouser than normal. Why aren't people taking better care as they drive to avoid careening into other non-paying-attention drivers?
All I know is that I'll keep my eye open for these nibbling nitwits. Hopefully, if I'm lucky, I'll get to see one of 'em flip their car by doing something stupid. My bad, I don't mean that. Ok, yeah I do.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Self-Scan Stupids!!!
The way I go grocery shopping, I never buy more than 10 or more items at a time. Mostly it's because I'm lazy and I'd rather go two times a week and carry a little bit of stuff than go twice a month and haul out everything on a palette.
This method of shopping affords me the ability to cash out exclusively at the Self-Scan machines. I wait in a brief line, get my stuff together, pay out and peace out. It's quick, efficient, and awesome.
However, I've begun to encounter a steady enemy in my way. Always ready to ruin my ninja-like entry and departure, the Cart Commando has found fun in pulling up their grocery cart and taking their sweet, ever-lovin' time running their endless piles of crap through the scanners.
What makes them think that's normal behavior? There are lines specifically designated for their cereals, soups, and celebrity magazines. Why would they take up space in MY nifty little niche of speed-shopping heaven so they can do up their own grimy groceries?
Bums, the lot of them! Bums I tell you!
This method of shopping affords me the ability to cash out exclusively at the Self-Scan machines. I wait in a brief line, get my stuff together, pay out and peace out. It's quick, efficient, and awesome.
However, I've begun to encounter a steady enemy in my way. Always ready to ruin my ninja-like entry and departure, the Cart Commando has found fun in pulling up their grocery cart and taking their sweet, ever-lovin' time running their endless piles of crap through the scanners.
What makes them think that's normal behavior? There are lines specifically designated for their cereals, soups, and celebrity magazines. Why would they take up space in MY nifty little niche of speed-shopping heaven so they can do up their own grimy groceries?
Bums, the lot of them! Bums I tell you!
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