2010 has come, and it got here faster than I expected. There are parts of 2009 that I will definitely miss, but most of its events I have seen off without so much as an impersonal goodbye. Everyone has his "mulligan" year, and mine was definitely no exception. Among the many occasions that Murphy's law threw a monkey wrench into my life's engine:
-Copious and nagging car trouble. I definitely won't miss fixing that damn thing every two weeks.
-Stagnancy with Cobalt Cali. We didn't do nearly enough this year, and this band deserves better. Much of our latency was well beyond our control, but I am going to work a hundred times harder.
-My Stupid Mouth. John Mayer hit the nail right on the head with that song. I let my tongue go off half cocked several times this year, and it yielded negative, if not devastating, results on more that one occasion. My goal is to maintain my sense of candor and reality without throwing so many damn verbal ninja stars.
-My own fear of letting people down. I finally realize that no matter how hard I try, I can't please everyone all the time. If fact, I'm doing pretty well to appease a minute fraction of the populace on sparse and rare occasions. I am going to strive to make myself happy in order to better serve others. This means a lot of things are going to change. No more fear of what Person A is going to think about this, or Person B is going to think I'm lame for saying that.
Granted, 2009 was definitely not without some degree of fruition. I developed many new friendships that have blessed my life with laughter, compassion and support. I have taken the time to analyze what will make my life better. I made a good bit of money. I have helped, and I have been helped. I have been a part of one EP release with Amalgamation. It's really nice to see a CD with your name and picture on it in stores!
So, I've comprised a short list of goals for the upcoming year. Some are deep and poignant, while some are lighthearted and funny. Peruse at your leisure.
-Get the Cobalt Cali CD rolling.
-Go on Wheel of Fortune.
-Take a few relationships to the level they should be.
-Get a dog (preferably an "outside dog" like a Lab or Collie)
-Travel back to the West Coast this summer with band and friends.
-Quit Smoking.
-Try out for DSU football team (I know some readers are thinking, "WTF?")
-Play lots and lots and lots of softball.
-Make my friends laugh.
-Make myself laugh.
-Talk to Mom and Dad more often.
-Write more. For papers, magazines, blogs and any other reason.
In short my New Year's Resolution goes something like this:
STOP LETTING YOUR DREAMS AND AMBITIONS PLAY SECOND FIDDLE TO SOCIETY'S "RULES" AND YOUR OWN SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS....
Monday, January 4, 2010
Monday, December 21, 2009
Mixed Martial Arts: The World's Most Glaring Misnomer
Stephen Wright is a familiar comedian whose analogies pinpoint the various colloquial misnomers plaguing our society. He poses such queries as "Why do you park in a driveway and drive on a parkway?" There are many of these rhetorical ambiguities that irritate me to no end, but the one that keeps me perturbed the most is the term "mixed martial arts." This phrase has been coined within the past decade and it couldn't be more inaccurate.
I have been a martial artist for some 15 years now. I have studied a myriad of styles and have acquired black belts in two systems of traditional martial arts: Shotokan Karate-do Kyohan (in which I hold Sandan, or third degree) and Hakkoryu Jujutsu (in which I hold Shodan or first degree). Having been a student of these two antipodal fighting styles and dabbling in a plethora of other forms to a lesser degree, I adopt a very anomalous definition of the phrase "mixed martial arts" that sends the average fan/practitioner/pundit into a frenzy. To my mind, mixed martial arts can be defined as follows:
-A non-standard amalgam of styles that differ from one another to varying degrees. The result is a personalized system of martial science that is tailor-fitted to an individual's skill set, build, and mentality.
This seems to make the most sense to me. However, the colloquial entity that is today known as "MMA" is the exact opposite. Upon observation, it seems that the system has adopted a few staple techniques from a couple of styles that seem to be applicable to tournament full contact fighting. The result is an entirely new fighting style that isn't really mixed at all. Aside from its borrowed tactics, the system has virtually no link to the traditional martial arts from which it was formed. Because its practitioners employ the same techniques and tactics across the board, it has rendered its nomenclature obselete.
Many readers will wonder why this bothers me to such an intense degree. The answer is multifaceted.
First of all, it has become a widely accepted style. Hence, it should be given a less ambiguous and more noteworthy title. Karate isn't called, "Beat up the corrupt Samurai." Jiu Jitsu isn't called "Rolling Around on the Ground and Gi-choking People." Give it some credit. It is a respectable style.
Second, I have encountered many a young enthusiast who has dedicated most of their life to its practice. If I ask them, "So, are you planning to compete in UFC or K1 or something?" I am often answered with something to the effect of, "Nah, just trying to get in shape," or, "Oh, no, dude. I want to be able to defend myself."
Therein lies the problem.
MMA is designed for professional sport fighters who usually only compete a few times in a calendar year. Furthermore, the fighter knows who he is fighting and when, thus granting the opportunity to undergo a strict training regimen and a thorough study of his opponents strategy and physical tendencies. Additionally, mainstream MMA has placed a great deal of emphasis on groundfighting, an element that can be the determining factor in winning or losing a fight.
I have overheard many a conversation that sounded something like this:
Dude A: "Man I wouldn't mess with (insert name here). He does MMA."
Dude B: "Oh, hell, no. Man he'd prolly kick the shit outta half this bar."
My cousin Tommy was talking to me about joining an MMA gym. Knowing that I was a martial artist, he asked my advice. I was blunt as a spoon.
"Here's the deal. You'll get in great shape, you'll be strong, you'll be fast, and you'll have stamina. However, with your size and strength, they are going to drive into your head that the best place for you to be is on the ground. Now, that is all fine and good when you are fighting one guy in the ring. But in the street, you aren't guaranteed that. While you have Jimmy wrapped up in guard trying to wear him out, his six buddies could be marauding you with pipes, bottles, knives, guns, etc."
He replied, "But if you have the training and the discipline to know when to go to the ground, you can elect to do so when needed."
My rebuttal:
"Any system of training, if undergone properly, will transfer to real life. Hence, if you are accustomed to taking the fight to the ground, that's what your instincts will tell you to do."
I have the same problem with "sport" karate schools who train for light contact "point" fighting. If you pull your punch in the dojo, you'll pull your punch in the street. Bottom line.
I really wish that people would see through the glamour and limelight of MMA and come back to the real world.
I have been a martial artist for some 15 years now. I have studied a myriad of styles and have acquired black belts in two systems of traditional martial arts: Shotokan Karate-do Kyohan (in which I hold Sandan, or third degree) and Hakkoryu Jujutsu (in which I hold Shodan or first degree). Having been a student of these two antipodal fighting styles and dabbling in a plethora of other forms to a lesser degree, I adopt a very anomalous definition of the phrase "mixed martial arts" that sends the average fan/practitioner/pundit into a frenzy. To my mind, mixed martial arts can be defined as follows:
-A non-standard amalgam of styles that differ from one another to varying degrees. The result is a personalized system of martial science that is tailor-fitted to an individual's skill set, build, and mentality.
This seems to make the most sense to me. However, the colloquial entity that is today known as "MMA" is the exact opposite. Upon observation, it seems that the system has adopted a few staple techniques from a couple of styles that seem to be applicable to tournament full contact fighting. The result is an entirely new fighting style that isn't really mixed at all. Aside from its borrowed tactics, the system has virtually no link to the traditional martial arts from which it was formed. Because its practitioners employ the same techniques and tactics across the board, it has rendered its nomenclature obselete.
Many readers will wonder why this bothers me to such an intense degree. The answer is multifaceted.
First of all, it has become a widely accepted style. Hence, it should be given a less ambiguous and more noteworthy title. Karate isn't called, "Beat up the corrupt Samurai." Jiu Jitsu isn't called "Rolling Around on the Ground and Gi-choking People." Give it some credit. It is a respectable style.
Second, I have encountered many a young enthusiast who has dedicated most of their life to its practice. If I ask them, "So, are you planning to compete in UFC or K1 or something?" I am often answered with something to the effect of, "Nah, just trying to get in shape," or, "Oh, no, dude. I want to be able to defend myself."
Therein lies the problem.
MMA is designed for professional sport fighters who usually only compete a few times in a calendar year. Furthermore, the fighter knows who he is fighting and when, thus granting the opportunity to undergo a strict training regimen and a thorough study of his opponents strategy and physical tendencies. Additionally, mainstream MMA has placed a great deal of emphasis on groundfighting, an element that can be the determining factor in winning or losing a fight.
I have overheard many a conversation that sounded something like this:
Dude A: "Man I wouldn't mess with (insert name here). He does MMA."
Dude B: "Oh, hell, no. Man he'd prolly kick the shit outta half this bar."
My cousin Tommy was talking to me about joining an MMA gym. Knowing that I was a martial artist, he asked my advice. I was blunt as a spoon.
"Here's the deal. You'll get in great shape, you'll be strong, you'll be fast, and you'll have stamina. However, with your size and strength, they are going to drive into your head that the best place for you to be is on the ground. Now, that is all fine and good when you are fighting one guy in the ring. But in the street, you aren't guaranteed that. While you have Jimmy wrapped up in guard trying to wear him out, his six buddies could be marauding you with pipes, bottles, knives, guns, etc."
He replied, "But if you have the training and the discipline to know when to go to the ground, you can elect to do so when needed."
My rebuttal:
"Any system of training, if undergone properly, will transfer to real life. Hence, if you are accustomed to taking the fight to the ground, that's what your instincts will tell you to do."
I have the same problem with "sport" karate schools who train for light contact "point" fighting. If you pull your punch in the dojo, you'll pull your punch in the street. Bottom line.
I really wish that people would see through the glamour and limelight of MMA and come back to the real world.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Halloween is Only Once a Year
Perusing my various online community profiles, I came across a rather entertaining, albeit morose, trend amongst fellow users. It seems as though everybody feels badgered into putting a witty quip in their status/tagline/whatever. The motivations are copious and ambivalent, but the tell is obvious to anyone with any ranks in Sense Motive (score one for me putting a Dungeons and Dragons reference in my blog!). I've deduced that there are three key factors that make people do this: the public's false perception of one's intellect, the eternal and perfunctory quest for social status, and the few who actually like to reflect their true colors in their online personae. As per my status quo, I have cut some wonderful fillets of unsolicited criticism soaked in my signature marinate of cynicism.
For those of you trying to look smarter:
You're not fooling anyone. If the vast majority of your acquaintances revere you as "that guy who puked in the fish tank after snorting Cabo Wabo," they will most likely ring up "No Sale" on your alleged knowledge of Rousseau or Descartes. And ladies, you aren't excluded from this. You having read the Cliff's Notes to Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar" doesn't change the fact that you have been spotted on several occasions screaming on MTV's Spring Break surrounded by Brazilian-waxed wannabe gigolos and quaffing a daiquiri out of a Big Gulp bucket.
If you want to appear to be more intelligent, your time would be best spent cracking a book or two and actually learning the esoteric meanings of the homilies and quips you post on your wall or profile. Furthermore, not everyone is supposed to be considered an intellectual. If this were the case, most television networks would tank because they'd have no one to exploit and no brainwashed audiences to manipulate. A certain degree of stupidity is good for business...
For those vying for social acceptance:
Trying to infiltrate the "in crowd" by feigning interest in their culture is a lot like shooting at a rhinoceros with a pellet gun: You can try if you want, but you'll just end up hurt and embarrassed. My best advice is to step away from World of Warcraft and go to a pub. It isn't gonna kill you, and you might even meet a girl! Then you can stop wasting time with anime vid--well, you get my drift.
For those who are true to themselves:
You guys are kosher. You guys are freakin' right on. People who know you will be able to easily identify a quote or analogy that you wield as congruent to your persona. The cold hard fact is that you are the ones that most people adore, so you are often imitated by those who respect and/or envy you. The other edge of the sword is that the incessant mimics can wear out your personality's welcome, rendering you confused and often dismayed. Don't let the posers piss on your campfire. If you catch someone overusing a signature quote, telling your stories, or otherwise assuming your persona, call them out. Ultimately, they'll respect you more for defending your individuality than if you succumb to flattery.
Stay tuned. I always find something to rant about.
Note: This post is dedicated to two very awesome people that never let anyone break their stride. Keep rockin', C and S :)
For those of you trying to look smarter:
You're not fooling anyone. If the vast majority of your acquaintances revere you as "that guy who puked in the fish tank after snorting Cabo Wabo," they will most likely ring up "No Sale" on your alleged knowledge of Rousseau or Descartes. And ladies, you aren't excluded from this. You having read the Cliff's Notes to Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar" doesn't change the fact that you have been spotted on several occasions screaming on MTV's Spring Break surrounded by Brazilian-waxed wannabe gigolos and quaffing a daiquiri out of a Big Gulp bucket.
If you want to appear to be more intelligent, your time would be best spent cracking a book or two and actually learning the esoteric meanings of the homilies and quips you post on your wall or profile. Furthermore, not everyone is supposed to be considered an intellectual. If this were the case, most television networks would tank because they'd have no one to exploit and no brainwashed audiences to manipulate. A certain degree of stupidity is good for business...
For those vying for social acceptance:
Trying to infiltrate the "in crowd" by feigning interest in their culture is a lot like shooting at a rhinoceros with a pellet gun: You can try if you want, but you'll just end up hurt and embarrassed. My best advice is to step away from World of Warcraft and go to a pub. It isn't gonna kill you, and you might even meet a girl! Then you can stop wasting time with anime vid--well, you get my drift.
For those who are true to themselves:
You guys are kosher. You guys are freakin' right on. People who know you will be able to easily identify a quote or analogy that you wield as congruent to your persona. The cold hard fact is that you are the ones that most people adore, so you are often imitated by those who respect and/or envy you. The other edge of the sword is that the incessant mimics can wear out your personality's welcome, rendering you confused and often dismayed. Don't let the posers piss on your campfire. If you catch someone overusing a signature quote, telling your stories, or otherwise assuming your persona, call them out. Ultimately, they'll respect you more for defending your individuality than if you succumb to flattery.
Stay tuned. I always find something to rant about.
Note: This post is dedicated to two very awesome people that never let anyone break their stride. Keep rockin', C and S :)
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Karaoke: Satan's Dog Whistle for Musicians
I found out I had absolute pitch when I was a sophomore in high school. At the time, I thought that it would liken me unto a musical superhero. Much to my chagrin, I learned thereafter that the vast majority of superheroes have a critical flaw or weakness that often dilutes or even thwarts their ability to accomplish their missions. This metaphysical phenomenon embraces only 1 out of every 10 Americans, and for myself, the embrace is almost vampiric in nature.
Let me digress. Absolute pitch is the ability to recognize any musical tone by name AND reproduce said note with no external reference. In layman's terms, I can tell you what pitch(es) your car horn produces, or you can say, "Sing a D#," and I'll be dead on.
The reason this is such a bittersweet metaphysical attribute is that everything in the world has pitch. You hit a car with a golf club and a note or several notes will resonate. 60 cycle hums from machines fall right between B flat and B. Everything sings--badly.
Why is this relevant? Why does this edition of Perfunktory Existence seem like a Wikipedia source for a Music Ed Thesis paper?
It's my job. As an up and coming artist with a fledgling fan base and no notable fiscal earnings from my original music, I am forced run karaoke at a local bar. This pays the bills and gets me free beer. It's quite the sweet gig. I sit on my ass and scroll through a database of CDG files, point and click, and get on my desk mic and say, "All right, everybody! Let's give it up for John Q. Public, singing 'Don't Stop Believing' by Journey!" When there is dead space to fill, I have the option to take the stage myself or simply put on my DJ hat and cue up some mass-produced radio hip-hop for all the Skankeltons and Skankettes to publicly humiliate themselves in a grotesque display of fully clothed, Sodom-and-Gomorrah-style dry humping.
Most readers are probably thinking, "What the hell is this guy bitching about? It's a do-nothing job!" This is where absolute pitch comes into play. I am a music connoisseur, enjoying myriad genres and artists. When I have to hear a 90 pound Dixie bumpkin who's had one too many Walk-me-downs butcher Patsy Cline like a fatted calf for the prodigal son, it makes me want to take a drink from a firing Gatling gun. Worse still are the typical "fishing-with-guns" frat bros that find it incumbent upon themselves to scream Hank Williams Jr.'s "Family Tradition" at the top of their sinfully inebriated lungs, forsaking the lyrics ever so often to yell some stupid collegiate chant or divvy up some unsolicited school spirit for a university THEY DON'T EVEN FUCKING ATTEND!!!
Once in a blue moon, I'll have a crop of good singers come in and grant me some needed aural respite. As one would expect, though, they are usually chased off by the hordes of drunken twenty-somethings who never grew out of mental adolescence. Hence, the only relief on which I can regularly bank is the rare occasion when I get to pick a song and sing myself.
I am by no means saying that I am the best singer in the world. However, I can think of a long list of people that I would rather hear singing karaoke than the rabble that frequents my work. Among the people I wish I could hear:
Chewbacca
Bobcat Goldthwait
Fran Drescher
Jerry Seinfeld
Ben Stein
William Shatner
Gailard Sartain
...and last but not least....
Helen Keller.
Yes. That's right. I said it. I would rather hear Helen Keller and Chewbacca sing "Picture" than most of the male/female duos that choose to further drive me insane by showing up.
I can't wait to quit this job and be famous....
Let me digress. Absolute pitch is the ability to recognize any musical tone by name AND reproduce said note with no external reference. In layman's terms, I can tell you what pitch(es) your car horn produces, or you can say, "Sing a D#," and I'll be dead on.
The reason this is such a bittersweet metaphysical attribute is that everything in the world has pitch. You hit a car with a golf club and a note or several notes will resonate. 60 cycle hums from machines fall right between B flat and B. Everything sings--badly.
Why is this relevant? Why does this edition of Perfunktory Existence seem like a Wikipedia source for a Music Ed Thesis paper?
It's my job. As an up and coming artist with a fledgling fan base and no notable fiscal earnings from my original music, I am forced run karaoke at a local bar. This pays the bills and gets me free beer. It's quite the sweet gig. I sit on my ass and scroll through a database of CDG files, point and click, and get on my desk mic and say, "All right, everybody! Let's give it up for John Q. Public, singing 'Don't Stop Believing' by Journey!" When there is dead space to fill, I have the option to take the stage myself or simply put on my DJ hat and cue up some mass-produced radio hip-hop for all the Skankeltons and Skankettes to publicly humiliate themselves in a grotesque display of fully clothed, Sodom-and-Gomorrah-style dry humping.
Most readers are probably thinking, "What the hell is this guy bitching about? It's a do-nothing job!" This is where absolute pitch comes into play. I am a music connoisseur, enjoying myriad genres and artists. When I have to hear a 90 pound Dixie bumpkin who's had one too many Walk-me-downs butcher Patsy Cline like a fatted calf for the prodigal son, it makes me want to take a drink from a firing Gatling gun. Worse still are the typical "fishing-with-guns" frat bros that find it incumbent upon themselves to scream Hank Williams Jr.'s "Family Tradition" at the top of their sinfully inebriated lungs, forsaking the lyrics ever so often to yell some stupid collegiate chant or divvy up some unsolicited school spirit for a university THEY DON'T EVEN FUCKING ATTEND!!!
Once in a blue moon, I'll have a crop of good singers come in and grant me some needed aural respite. As one would expect, though, they are usually chased off by the hordes of drunken twenty-somethings who never grew out of mental adolescence. Hence, the only relief on which I can regularly bank is the rare occasion when I get to pick a song and sing myself.
I am by no means saying that I am the best singer in the world. However, I can think of a long list of people that I would rather hear singing karaoke than the rabble that frequents my work. Among the people I wish I could hear:
Chewbacca
Bobcat Goldthwait
Fran Drescher
Jerry Seinfeld
Ben Stein
William Shatner
Gailard Sartain
...and last but not least....
Helen Keller.
Yes. That's right. I said it. I would rather hear Helen Keller and Chewbacca sing "Picture" than most of the male/female duos that choose to further drive me insane by showing up.
I can't wait to quit this job and be famous....
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Masochism
Is it strange that I look forward to the inherent problems of long-term relationships and marriage?
It seems like every couple with which I am moderately acquainted tends to use me as a makeshift marriage counselor. I get calls at all hours of the night and early AM asking for advice, condolence, and solutions to problems created by other people. The fact that I have no psychology degree or license to practice notwithstanding, this baffles me. I haven't been in a relationship for some three years now, and I've never been in a relationship that lasted more than six months. This isn't because I'm afraid of commitment or am downright hideous; rather, it is caused by the inability of the opposite sex to tolerate my fast-paced lifestyle, quirks and personality flaws. This noted, it seems that I would be one of the last options in relationship counseling that anyone without a mental defect would choose.
The tough part is, because they are my friends, I can't turn down helping them out. It gets worse when I actually have to hear what they say. It usually goes something like this:
Guys:
"She is smothering me and won't let me do anything I want. I can't go hang out with friends without catching the northwest corner of Hurricane Bitchfest."
What I have to say: "Well, man it's just because she loves you. You should be grateful. Some guys don't have that. You just have to find a way to meet her halfway."
What I'd like to say: "Listen, you ungrateful fucker. I'd kill to be in your position. I can't get a girl to let me buy her a drink, and you're saying your biggest problem is that she wants to be around you all the time? Man up and spend some time with her or I'm gonna plant a Titleist golf shoe in your goody bag."
Girls:
"He never wants to spend time with me. He'd rather go out grab-assing with his friends than take me out to dinner or stay in and watch a movie. I just want him to appreciate me."
What I have to say: "Well, sweetie, you are both young. You have to realize that he still has a close bond with his guys. Just like you need time, he needs time. You just have to find a way to meet him halfway."
What I'd like to say: "This guy sounds like a short-order douche-waffle with dick syrup and ass butter. Why don't we spend some time together? You might actually have a good time, and you can smother me with all the unrequited love you have."
But it doesn't work that way. If I say what I'd like to say, I lose two friends. If I say what I need to say, then I am either forced to choose sides or I end up giving advice that isn't used on either end.
From henceforth, I will only act as a "freelance counselor" with the following stipulations:
-I will charge an hourly rate of $50 (US).
-If no compromise is reached, the rate goes up to $100 (US).
-Anyone who attempts to sway my neutral stance will accrue a fine of $200 (US).
-If you actually listen and try to make things work, I will work pro bono.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's episode: Original Music vs. Cover Music: The Epic Battle
It seems like every couple with which I am moderately acquainted tends to use me as a makeshift marriage counselor. I get calls at all hours of the night and early AM asking for advice, condolence, and solutions to problems created by other people. The fact that I have no psychology degree or license to practice notwithstanding, this baffles me. I haven't been in a relationship for some three years now, and I've never been in a relationship that lasted more than six months. This isn't because I'm afraid of commitment or am downright hideous; rather, it is caused by the inability of the opposite sex to tolerate my fast-paced lifestyle, quirks and personality flaws. This noted, it seems that I would be one of the last options in relationship counseling that anyone without a mental defect would choose.
The tough part is, because they are my friends, I can't turn down helping them out. It gets worse when I actually have to hear what they say. It usually goes something like this:
Guys:
"She is smothering me and won't let me do anything I want. I can't go hang out with friends without catching the northwest corner of Hurricane Bitchfest."
What I have to say: "Well, man it's just because she loves you. You should be grateful. Some guys don't have that. You just have to find a way to meet her halfway."
What I'd like to say: "Listen, you ungrateful fucker. I'd kill to be in your position. I can't get a girl to let me buy her a drink, and you're saying your biggest problem is that she wants to be around you all the time? Man up and spend some time with her or I'm gonna plant a Titleist golf shoe in your goody bag."
Girls:
"He never wants to spend time with me. He'd rather go out grab-assing with his friends than take me out to dinner or stay in and watch a movie. I just want him to appreciate me."
What I have to say: "Well, sweetie, you are both young. You have to realize that he still has a close bond with his guys. Just like you need time, he needs time. You just have to find a way to meet him halfway."
What I'd like to say: "This guy sounds like a short-order douche-waffle with dick syrup and ass butter. Why don't we spend some time together? You might actually have a good time, and you can smother me with all the unrequited love you have."
But it doesn't work that way. If I say what I'd like to say, I lose two friends. If I say what I need to say, then I am either forced to choose sides or I end up giving advice that isn't used on either end.
From henceforth, I will only act as a "freelance counselor" with the following stipulations:
-I will charge an hourly rate of $50 (US).
-If no compromise is reached, the rate goes up to $100 (US).
-Anyone who attempts to sway my neutral stance will accrue a fine of $200 (US).
-If you actually listen and try to make things work, I will work pro bono.
Stay tuned for tomorrow's episode: Original Music vs. Cover Music: The Epic Battle
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Snickers Bar 1, Me 0
It's amazing how the human body can simultaneously be awkward and nimble--frail yet stalwart. We hear tales of diminutive women lifting cars off of toddlers followed by accounts of "death by six-inch fall." Our physical being is a paradox, and an entertaining one to boot.
Earlier today, I was horribly pissed about losing the Snicker's bar I had placed in my P-coat pocket. The day had started with my being awakened by two of my cats in a fight to the death outside my door. I swear if they could use guns, at least three of the five roommates would be dead by now. My bedroom door was ajar, and at about 7 this morning a cyclone of fur, teeth, claws and feline dementia barreled through the threshold. I jumped up from a lovely dream (it involved Evan Rachel Wood and kimonos) to something out of a damn Loony Tunes episode coming right for me. My first instinct was to grab the ninja star sitting on my bedside table and let fly. Then I realized that two of my roommates would disembowel me for harming a "defenseless animal", whether in self defense or out of pure malice. So, I sat there in bed, hoping like hell they wouldn't somehow make their way up there with me. Had that happened, I would have taken my chances with the roomie's potential wrath. Cat scratches don't heal very quickly.
The day was already doomed in my mind. I remember I had promised my friend that I would restring his guitar. He showed up at about noon and we went to the music store. Here is where the day got a bit better. I saw this bubble-gum pink Strat knock-off on the wall. I thought to myself, "For reasons well beyond my comprehension or concern, I must have this guitar. Nobody else in Fishin'-with-Guns-Ville, Mississippi would have the testicular fortitude to even think about owning a pink guitar. It'll be talked about at many a water cooler/lounge/urinal tomorrow. Bet."
We left the music store with my friend's strings and what another customer referred to as "a faggoty-ass Pepto Bismol guitar." I know this because my friend knows this. He heard the guy say it. I walked back into the music store and said, "Enjoy watching Fox News in your double-wide tonight. Oh, and enjoy the roadkill you're going to eat."
At this point, I was feeling ok. I had gotten my daily idiot-bash out of the way and was stoked about our fraternity's Pie-in-the-Face fundraiser. I went home to change into some clothes that I didn't care so much about. I went up to my room and grabbed a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. This is where the whole first paragraph resurfaces.
As I go to walk down the stairs, my flip-flop hits something on the floor. You know that confounded look on your face you get before you realize you're going to be injured? That was the look on the face of my friend as I tumbled face first down the stairs. Only the fact that I have extensive training in falling (thanks Jiujutsu) saved me from pummeling all my bones into talcum powder. The irony is that the training that kept me from becoming a beach ball full of Jello seemed to be on its coffee break when I tripped over the damn candybar that had fallen out of my coat and onto the floor atop the stairs.
I think I'm going to swear off chocolate...
Earlier today, I was horribly pissed about losing the Snicker's bar I had placed in my P-coat pocket. The day had started with my being awakened by two of my cats in a fight to the death outside my door. I swear if they could use guns, at least three of the five roommates would be dead by now. My bedroom door was ajar, and at about 7 this morning a cyclone of fur, teeth, claws and feline dementia barreled through the threshold. I jumped up from a lovely dream (it involved Evan Rachel Wood and kimonos) to something out of a damn Loony Tunes episode coming right for me. My first instinct was to grab the ninja star sitting on my bedside table and let fly. Then I realized that two of my roommates would disembowel me for harming a "defenseless animal", whether in self defense or out of pure malice. So, I sat there in bed, hoping like hell they wouldn't somehow make their way up there with me. Had that happened, I would have taken my chances with the roomie's potential wrath. Cat scratches don't heal very quickly.
The day was already doomed in my mind. I remember I had promised my friend that I would restring his guitar. He showed up at about noon and we went to the music store. Here is where the day got a bit better. I saw this bubble-gum pink Strat knock-off on the wall. I thought to myself, "For reasons well beyond my comprehension or concern, I must have this guitar. Nobody else in Fishin'-with-Guns-Ville, Mississippi would have the testicular fortitude to even think about owning a pink guitar. It'll be talked about at many a water cooler/lounge/urinal tomorrow. Bet."
We left the music store with my friend's strings and what another customer referred to as "a faggoty-ass Pepto Bismol guitar." I know this because my friend knows this. He heard the guy say it. I walked back into the music store and said, "Enjoy watching Fox News in your double-wide tonight. Oh, and enjoy the roadkill you're going to eat."
At this point, I was feeling ok. I had gotten my daily idiot-bash out of the way and was stoked about our fraternity's Pie-in-the-Face fundraiser. I went home to change into some clothes that I didn't care so much about. I went up to my room and grabbed a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. This is where the whole first paragraph resurfaces.
As I go to walk down the stairs, my flip-flop hits something on the floor. You know that confounded look on your face you get before you realize you're going to be injured? That was the look on the face of my friend as I tumbled face first down the stairs. Only the fact that I have extensive training in falling (thanks Jiujutsu) saved me from pummeling all my bones into talcum powder. The irony is that the training that kept me from becoming a beach ball full of Jello seemed to be on its coffee break when I tripped over the damn candybar that had fallen out of my coat and onto the floor atop the stairs.
I think I'm going to swear off chocolate...
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