The Groomsman Chronicles, TopGun Ed., pt.2: On the Road to Rehearsal

The day before TopGun's wedding, Cap'n Shack-Fu, his fiance, and I got up around 5:30 AM so we could get on the road and make it to CO in time to check into our hotel and get freshened up before the rehearsal that evening.  None of us had slept all that well, but we plodded zed-word-like to Shack's mom's Suburban, loaded up our stuff, and hit the road with Shack behind the wheel, me riding shotgun, and Future Mrs. Shack-Fu stretched out in the back seat trying to catch up on sleep -- which turned out to be a bit of a futile effort as Shack and I started coming to life and visiting, getting progressively louder as the miles wore on.  I noticed her occasionally rising up to give us groggy withering glances, but I did not notice the time that a sudden burst of noise from the front prompted her to attempt to slap Shack-Fu upside the head to quiet him down -- "attempt"' being the operative word, as her sleepy strike missed him so completely that we weren't even aware of her foiled attack until she told on herself later.

Not too far into the drive I got a text from TopGun wanting to see if we had hit the road yet.  My response; "why, is there somewhere we're supposed to be today?"  He replied "Only if you value your life."  After I gave him our estimate of when we would be hitting town that afternoon, he realized that we weren't too far ahead of him on the road, so we made plans to meet up at Clines Corners and caravan from there with TopGun leading the way, since he also informed us that the route we had planned to take was plagued with enough road construction to add a couple of hours onto our drive.

Before heading on to CO, however, we had to make a stop in Albuquerque* so TopGun could pick up his sister and niece at the airport, after which we stopped for lunch at a local Cracker Barrel which seemed like it might put us behind schedule, but Shack-Fu and I decided if we wound up getting to the rehearsal late we would show solidarity , and blame it all on TopGun.  "We were just going to grab a quick bite to eat while driving, but noooooooo, TopGun had to have his Double Meat Breakfast!"  Secure in the knowledge that we now had a convenient scapegoat, we soon hit the road yet again.

Several hours later we arrived in CO; since TopGun still had to go pick up Li'l Champ for the rehearsal, Shack, his honey, and I were able to go check into the hotel, get freshened up, and still beat TopGun to the church.  Thankfully, I had met the bride-to-be a couple of times before so there was at least one familiar face who could introduce us around.  But once TopGun showed up with The Coolest Kid in the World in tow, we were able to get started.

 Before starting the rehearsal in earnest, they played a slide show for us since none of the wedding party would be in the sanctuary when it played before the wedding the next day. The slide show consisted first of pictures of TopGun, then of his fiance, and then of the both of them together.  Combined with the little speech TopGun gave before starting it about how thankful they were to have all of us there it was actually pretty touching, and so I responded to getting a little emotional as you might expect:  by mocking TopGun as an exhibitionist for having multiple pictures of himself running around shirtless at various ages.

Hey, you express emotions your way and I'll express them in mine, okay?

For the most part the actual rehearsal was uneventful, although there were a few interesting moments; the most interesting for me involved my interactions with Li'l Champ.  To start off, Li'l Champ's role in the ceremony wasn't to be ring bearer, or anything as pedestrian as that.  No, while I may have been Best Man, Li'l Champ was The Best Best Man, and therefore stood up front next to his dad while the rest of the wedding party entered.

 

and then moved up to stand right in front of me after the bride's father gave her away.

As you might suspect after my last post, having Li'l Champ and I in such close proximity to each other for extended periods of time while decisions well above our pay grade were being discussed in depth was a recipe for, if not disaster, than at least some minor physical altercations. To be honest, I'm not sure which of us started picking on the other first; all I am sure of is that it was quickly apparent that in the many months since I had last seen him, Li'l Champ had upgraded me from "grappling partner" to "striking partner."

Translation:  I was the recipient of multiple punches to the gut from Li'l Champ's tiny little fists.  Once the hands were restrained, then I was treated to mini-head butts to the gut and some mule kicks to the shins.  Surprisingly, our little struggles didn't appear to draw any attention from most of the wedding party who were too busy discussing the order of the vows or how best to light the Unity candle.  Afterwards, when I told TopGun his son was picking on me, his response was to tell Li'l Champ, "Now, no beating up Todd during the wedding tomorrow," to which Li'l Champ replied "I know," in that resigned tone which comes so naturally to the little ones.

 Not too long after that as we were heading towards the rehearsal dinner, Li'l Champ got over his initial shyness towards Shack-Fu and decided to initiate him into the gut-punching club, only to fall victim to Shack's patented tickle attack which had Li'l Champ flat on his back, giggling hysterically and begging his dad for help.  TopGun, being a good dad, declined, using it as a teaching moment.  The lesson?  "Actions have consequences."

One other rehearsal tidbit:  when the first groomsman, TopGun's uncle, practiced walking in, he and high-fived TopGun and Li'l Champ.  Shack-Fu in turn did one of those finger-wiggling things, and I decided to go with the tried and true fist-bump

Everyone enjoyed the impromptu greetings so much that they requested we keep them for the actual wedding.

For the rehearsal dinner we just had some pizza from a local pizza place.  TopGun and I both had six slices apiece, but the difference is that for him that was the first pizza he'd had in 6 months -- for me it was just another Friday night.

After the rehearsal everyone was invited over to the bride's place to hang out, but unfortunately the part of me that wanted to hang out and get to know the bride and her family more was shouted down by the part of me that was suffering from next to no sleep and elevation changes -- a part that manifested as a blinding headache by the time we reached the hotel**.  So I made my apologies to TopGun, handed over his and Li'l Champ's tuxedos which I'd carted from Texas, and headed back to the hotel to collapse so I could be well rested for the big day. 

*I kept asking TopGun if we could stop by a nice pawn shop while we were there so I could sell off these two really nice rings some dope had entrusted me with, but for some reason he wasn't too helpful. . .
**Although to be honest, that might have had something to do with the fact that I indulged in one last pestering of Li'l Champ before we left, and then sprinted away as he chased, I fact I regretted instatly -- think I was still winded the next day.

And in This Corner . . . Li'l Champ!

As I was preparing to write the next installment of "The Groomsman Chronicles," it dawned on me that to put certain things into context, I should probably talk a bit about one of the key players who hasn't gotten much coverage here at CoIM:  TopGun's son Li'l Champ, a.k.a. The Coolest Kid in the World*.

I met Li'l Champ last year when he came down to stay with his dad for about a month over his summer break.  He was really shy when TopGun first introduced him to me -- wouldn't say hi or shake my hand or anything.  Think that shyness last a whole, oh, hour, hour and a half tops before we were fast friends. And, as with most of my friends, the majority of our interactions consisted of picking on one another**.

The best thing about Li'l Champ's visit was the floor show I got to watch daily as the then-6-year-old wrestler and budding MMA enthusiast would challenge his dad to a match; and then, after TopGun would get tired of rolling around, Li'l Champ would then saunter up to me and whisper "Hey, Todd . . . wanna fight?" And then, when both his dad and I were through letting him beat up on us for the evening, he would grab one of the pillows off of TopGun's bed and practice his ground-and-pound on it.

But the best part of it wasn't just watching this scrappy little kid picking fights with guys 3 or 4 times his size; no, the best part was that every single match was a gigantic production narrated constantly by the pint-sized ringmaster. 

"Okay, now, dad, you and I have to go out of the room and do our entrances . . . and now, here he is, ladies and gentleman, the one the only . . .GSP! [mimics crowd noise and runs around the room before coming to stand before me]. Okay, Todd, you're my coach, give me a pep talk . . . DAD!  It's your turn to come in! No, Dad, you have to run around the ring! Okay, Todd, now you're the ref, you have to say 'Let's fight!' . . . say it!"

The running monologue would die down slightly while he was actually wrestling around with us, but not a lot, as he would often interject instructions to make our actions fit the narrative in his head.  "Okay, then dad, you hit me in the jaw -- not really, stop it! -- and it rocks me, and I'm wobbly, and you try to take me down -- try to take me down, dad!  But I recover, and I knock you down instead . . . dad, go down!"  Needless to say, TopGun and I both indulged in quite a bit of contrary behavior to get Li'l Champ's goat; good times, good times.

Now, when Li'l Champ and I would be wrestling, it would be straight up grappling -- kid's got an impressive guillotine choke and arm bar, by the way -- but when it was him and his dad then Li'l Champ would pull out all the stops and fists and legs would go a-flying.  And although TopGun did have me stand still and let Li'l Champ demonstrate his pretty impressive leg kicks on me, during that first month he stayed at our place the little brawler never moved into striking territory with me.

That would eventually change.

All in all, I really enjoyed having Li'l Champ stay with us, and looked forward to his return trip for Thanksgiving and Spring Break -- although during the former he was directly responsible for me spending good money to go see Twilight: New Moon at the theater, and for that, I may never forgive him. Still, I have to say I was looking forward to getting to see the little punk again at the wedding -- little did I know that his tiny little fists now had my name written all of them . . . but that's a story for the next installment of The Groomsman Chronicles.

*For anyone out there saying "Wait, why isn't my kid The Coolest Kid in the World," well, all I can say is the day your kid gets a haircut to look like his hero Chuck Liddell and then manages to slap an arm bar on me, then we can talk about revising the ratings.
** I have to say, being an only child, I often take great delight in playing the role of "ornery uncle" to my friends' kids; I bet that info makes all of my own ornery uncles proud.

Totally Worth It

I spent this past Saturday hanging out at PigPen's house, watching whatever random stuff would catch our attention on TV:  old reruns (Star Trek: TNG, South Park, Two and Half Men), some UFC fights, lots of college football, and an assortment of movies ranging from the execrable Old Dogs to the mildly entertaining Planet 51 to the odd-ball Sci-Fi cult film Dune.

I've always had a soft spot in my heart for Dune -- yes, it's a mess, but it's a gloriously entertaining mess.    One scene that's burned into my memory is this one:



Not just because Wrath teh Berzerker used to mimic it all the time in college -- although he would change "For he is the Kwisatz Haderach!" to "For he is the Knickknack Paddywhack!" -- but because little Alia there is one of the creepiest characters in cinematic history.  And as PigPen and I watched the last part of the movie, I struggled to hide an evil little smirk as I planned the opening salvo in the following exchange:

ME:  Man, that sure is one creepy little girl
PIGPEN: Yeah, pretty creepy.
ME:  Y'know, I used to wonder how in the world they could have ever found someone that creepy . . . but then I found out she was played by a young Alicia Witt.  Once I knew she was really a ginger, it all made sense.
PIGPEN: [nods his ginger head slowly then punches me in the leg]
ME:  It was worth it.
PIGPEN:  Figured you'd say that. [punches me again]  Still worth it? [and again] How about now? [and again]

If you think this lead directly to PigPen and I beating the crap out of each other like the good ol' days of Benjiman Street, well, you would be sadly mistaken.  No, the beating the crap out of each other didn't happen until several hours later as PigPen decided to demonstrate the advice he was yelling at the UFC fighters on me.

Of Bro Codes and Buttkickings; or "An Evening With PigPen and Peanut"

A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from The Lovable PigPen asking if I could take off work a bit early on the following Friday afternoon to pick him up from the airport after his return from a business trip. To make it worth my while he offered to buy my lunch and pay for a day pass at his and Cap'n Peanut's gym so that I could work out with them and play some racquetball. Never one to pass up free food and an excuse to take off of work, I quickly agreed; of course, the fact that I don't get to hang out with PigPen too often anymore, and hadn't played racquetball with him since a couple of months before he broke my finger might have had a little bit to do with it.

I got to the airport about 10 minutes before his flight was scheduled to land, which turned out to be excellent timing, as his flight was about 10 minutes early. I was standing by the baggage claim that had been indicated online when I saw PigPen walking out, looking around; he looked right through me and turned to walk the opposite direction. I of course did the only logical thing; sped walk to catch up to him and invade his personal space so that he almost spun around and decked me. When he realized it was me and didn't give me crap for coming up on him like that, I knew something was distracting him. Turns out as soon as his plane landed and he turned on his work Blackberry, he had a ton of missed calls. You see, although he had been out of town on company business all week, he had also been primary on-call all week, and so didn't get a full night's sleep all night from dealing with calls. And, of course, while he was on the flight, some major technical issues sprang up, the end result of which was that his planned afternoon off went up in smoke; bummer for me, who had been looking forward to hanging out with him, and double-bummer for him who had been looking forward to being able to escape from work stuff for an afternoon.

We stopped to get a quick bite to eat at KFC, and then swung by his place so he could grab his car. Luckily, Cap'n Peanut was home, so I hung out with him while waiting for PigPen to get back from work. Well, except for the hour where Peanut had an appointment, during which time I sat around reading their copy of The Bro Code by Barney Stinson*; not surprisingly, I discovered that I am a frequent code violator, but was more than pleased to note that Peanut had a couple of infractions under his belt as well. Anyway, PigPen was finally able to escape from work, and by the time all was said and done, we made it to the gym probably close to 7pm.

It was at this point that Peanut and PigPen tried to kill me.**

Okay, so maybe, that's a bit of an exaggeration; really, they just tried to make my arms and legs fall off with a work-out far beyond my meager capabilities. I would periodically inform workout mastermind Peanut of my intense loathing of him, and how I would do him great bodily harm if I were actually still capable of moving any of my limbs. After they finished breaking my spirit with the workout from hell, we headed to the racquetball courts.

I managed to beat Peanut in my first game***, but had a brief fear of being shut-out by PigPen when he broke out into an impressive lead early on in our first game; I told them afterwards that if he had managed to shut me out after not playing for over a year and a half when I had been playing with Trouble for the last month or two, I would have just walked back to their apartment and then driven off into the night, vanishing along with my dignity. Luckily, this was not necessary, as I finally got my head in the game enough to stage a minor comeback. Not enough to beat him, of course, but enough to keep me from feeling like a total screwup. We kept playing until the gym shut down at 10, at which point we finally picked up some dinner and headed back to their place.

Before we had gone to the gym, Peanut had been giving PigPen a hard time about the previous weekend, when they had stayed up late reliving their college days by playing Tekken 3, during which time Peanut had managed to rack up quite a few more wins than PigPen. After all the trash talking, PigPen of course had no choice but to instigate a rematch. And while it apparently wasn't as one-sided as their previous all-nighter had been, Peanut was still turning out to be a bit more on his game than PigPen, a fact that frustrated the always competitive PigPen to no end. At one point, Peanut handed me his controller while he went to get something to drink, and so after getting my butt kicked by the workout and again in racquetball, I received my third butt-kicking of the evening as PigPen mercilessly took out his aggressions on my poor electronic avatars -- poor because they were being guided by someone who had never played any version of Tekken before and being attacked by someone who had devoted countless hours to learning all the nuances of the game. After several games in which I was barely able to lay a virtual hand on PigPen, I passed the controller back to Peanut with great relief.

One of the features of the Versus mode of Tekken 3 is that it keeps a running tally of how many wins each player has, making it easy to keep track of just how far ahead Peanut was. This lead to the following exchange:

PigPen: "Man, I can't believe Peanut is up on me 13 games."
Me: "Actually, if you subtract the wins you had against me, it's more like 17 games."
PigPen: "Shut up, Todd!"

This exchange was repeated several times over the next hour, with each iteration leading to a more forceful tone of voice from PigPen, as well as threats of physical violence. And so it was that my smart mouth lead to my 4th and final butt-kicking of the evening, as PigPen followed up on his threats and engaged me in our first sparring match since the night he moved out 6 months previously. And while the part of me that had missed our semi-regular grappling matches was pleased, the part of me that was so worn out from the workouts and racquetball that it couldn't move its arms and legs was less so.

By the time my hosts had decided they were ready to call it quits, it was around 4AM. I crashed on their couch, and managed probably three or four hours of sleep before I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, so I just laid there on the couch waiting for the others to get up. Eventually they both emerged from their respective rooms, and Peanut called out for pizza for lunch. After we ate, Peanut and PigPen headed to Era to pick up a table from Peanut's parents, and I headed back to my place. I was sore from the workout, but both of my tormentors, I mean, friends, assured me that it would be even worse the next day. However, after a brief chat with my mom when I got home, my sleep deprivation caught up with me, and I crashed for several hours, waking up 30 minutes before I was supposed to head to Cap'n Bubbles' birthday party with a massive headache and even more massive pain in my limbs; apparently, my body had taken my three hour nap as a signal to move into second-day-soreness mode. The upside, of course, was that although I wound up having to beg off the party, I got most all of the discomfort out of the way on Saturday, and felt pretty good on Sunday.

To recap: initial plans scrapped, received massive butt kickings at everything I attempted, and wound up feeling pretty miserable the following day. Factor in the fact that I got to experience all of the above while hanging out with two of my best buds who I don't get to see nearly often enough since they moved to Lewisville, and I'd have to say that on the whole it turned out to be one of the best weekends I've had in a while.

Even if the bastages did try to kill me.

*Pretty entertaining little book; I'm tempted to purchase the audiobook version which is read by NPH in character.
**While never explicitly spelled out, I can't help but feel like attempted homicide flies in the face of the Bro Code
***A fact that I would be much more willing to brag about if it weren't for the fact that that night was Peanut's first time to play racquetball ever, and my win was not by a very impressive margin. Cursed athletic, coordinated people, making me look bad!

Wrestlemaniac Wednesday - Brothers Don't Hit, Brothers Hug!

I managed to complete a Judo throw during randori (sparring) for the first time last night, which was a pretty big thing for me; even better, it wasn't just a regular throw. I went in for o-soto-gari (the most basic throw), and my sparring partner blocked it and sort of trapped my leg; instead of panicking and trying to free myself, or beating myself up for not being able to catch him with my first throw, I actually remembered a move they showed us last week, pivoted on my free foot, and threw him. I wasn't able to catch him with any more standing throws the rest of the night, although I did manage to do something similar to wrestler's fireman's carry and toss him on his back later on. All in all, a pretty good night, which has inspired me to make this officially Wrestlemaniac Wednesday.

Sometime within the last couple of months, The Lovable PigPen decided to revive the time-honored tradition of testosterone-fueled males everywhere known as "two for flinching," a tradition which gives him endless delight because he gets to practice it on yours truly, one of the jumpiest fools on the face of the planet. Well, the other night while he and I were wrestling around he got me to flinch, doled out the request couple of punches, then got a strange look on his face and said "I saw you flinch too!" and punched me twice in the chest. I just stared at him as he started babbling about not talking back and how he was going to beat Tony Stark's ass; it was at that moment that I realized he was directing his comments towards the Iron Man t-shirt I was wearing . . . a t-shirt, might I add, that PigPen got me as a birthday present. Next thing I know, PigPen has tackled me and is raining blows down on the pictures on my shirt, calling out threats to Tony Stark the whole time. "I hate you Tony Stark! Hate you! Don't make kick your iron butt!" Things like that. I, meanwhile, am more ineffectual than usual at protecting myself because I'm laughing too danged hard at his antics. Sure, he may be a soulless ginger bastage hell-bent on destroying me, but he's a funny soulless ginger bastage hell-bent on destroying me, ya gotta give him that.

In addition to the good news about the FBI, Cap'n Shack-Fu also told me that he should be back in our area pretty soon which is cool, since I haven't had a chance to hang out with him for about a month and a half. Not telling how long he'll be around before they try to ship him off again. I'm sure I'll goad him into at least one sparring session before he heads off again, although with the amount of pent-up aggression he's probably developed over the last month and a half on deployment, I might be sorry. Then again, what else is new?

Now, while I've been able to goad The Lovable PigPen, Cap'n Peanut, and Cap'n Shack-Fu into full on wrestling matches, I have not yet managed to draw out the more violent tendencies of Li'l Random McEvil. Now, I know they're there; I've seen him dole out plenty of punishment to his friend B.B. But Li'l Brother informs me that he likes to keep his violent tendencies confined to just one particular individual, and sadly B.B. has apparently beaten me to the punch, so to speak. This of course does not deter me from trying to awaken the sleeping giant that is Li'l Random's violent side, but so far he has been able to resist responding in kind. Part of the fun of picking on Li'l Bro, though, is seeing which if a zillion random reactions will result; sometimes he'll just curl up into a semi-fetal position, other times he'll clutch onto something and holler "base, I'm on base!*" Occasionally he'll take the "gee, I think I just felt a gnat land on my arm, but I'm not sure, because it was as if I hardly felt a thing" approach, which is always delightful. Probably my favorite of the old stand-bys is his motto "Brothers don't hit, brothers hug!"; I maintain they do both. Monday night he pulled the "see, I would retaliate, but I would hate to embarrass you in public like that. That's how good a friend I am" gambit, which was new. Not so new is the fact that if PigPen is around when I'm picking on Li'l Random he transforms into The Ginger Avenger, coming to the "rescue" of "poor defenseless" Li'l Random**, a fact that somehow Li'l Random didn't clue into until I mentioned it recently; he then decided to test it out Sunday night, tattling on me to PigPen, who then came after me while I tried to use Li'l Tattletale as a shield.

*One time he declared a water bottle as base when Shack and I were ganging up on him; we weren't really sold on the validity of a mobile base, especially when he tried to convince us the next day that the bottle he had was the same one, even though it was a different brand and design. We did not fall for his tricksy ways.
**Apparently PigPen doesn't want any competition for the title of "Group Bully" . . .

Mix-It-Up Monday - Invasion of the Parental Units

Since I didn't put up a Fragmented Friday post last week, even though I promise Miss ArkanSass one was forthcoming, I figured I'd do my rambling summation of last week today, rather than wait until this Friday.

Zinger just got back from a week in Alaska and spent a good portion of his morning getting caught up on all of his daily online reads. Zinger remarked how much he hated trying to play catch up on everything, although he was quick to point out that reading through CoIM was incredibly easy . . .

My mom and dad were in town for several days since they hadn't seen me since Christmas, and my vacation leave balance was practically nil making any potential trip on my part rushed at best. Plus, they never had gotten a chance to meet many of the Singles outside of Maverick, Biz-Z, and Cap'n Shack-Fu, and were really wanting to see just how accurate my descriptions of everyone were. Last time they were down we tried to do quite a bit of stuff, but this time we mainly just sat around, visited, watched TV, and went out to eat. Not very exciting, perhaps, but it was relaxing.

Saturday evening while mom and dad were relaxing back at the hotel, I went out to the park with PigPen, Cap'n Peanut, and Maverick to throw around the football and Frisbee. It was one of those times when something kind of clicked in my head in terms of the mind/body connection, because I wound up doing a better job catching the football than pretty much any other time I can remember -- up until I kind of jammed my fingers, that is. Three guesses which finger got the brunt of it. That's right, the crooked right middle finger caught the ball head on; I tried to shake off the pain and keep playing, but after a few more catches the paranoia of "Oh, crap, did I screw it up again?" was a bit overwhelming and I had to bow out of any more passing/catching. Didn't feel too bad on Sunday, but is a little stiff and sore today; hopefully that will go away soon.

About the most touristy thing my folks did while they were down is stroll around The Square. We went to Recycled Books, had lunch at Denton County Independent Hamburger Company, had dessert at Beth Marie's Old Fashioned Ice Cream and Soda, wandered into one of the antique stores -- surprisingly my dad's suggestion and not mom's -- and then had to come back a couple of days later so dad could take pictures of the courthouse.

A few weeks back Cap'n Peanut and I were wrestling around and I had to take a very literal breather because I had been around too much cigarette smoke that night and was having trouble getting enough oxygen; early last week I sent him a couple of emails clamoring for a rematch, to which he never responded; in fact, we were around each other quite a bit on Saturday and it never came up. Until, that is, we got back from the park; while PigPen went in to take a shower, Peanut calmly walked into the living room, shoved the coffee table up against the couch*, and called me out. He kicked my butt pretty handily of course, thanks to his crazy gorilla strength, but I almost caught him in a choke . . . man, am I sick of almosts. Next time, Peanut, you're going down!**

I was not the only person with parental visitors this weekend; Li'l Random's parents also decided to come to town for a few days, although none of us ever got to see them. I gather that this is because as soon as his folks arrive, Li'l McEvil chains them to his yard, forcing them to weed and plant and chop down trees and such, until he's worked them near to death and allows them to escape back to Arkansas before their next round of enforced labor. . . although, since I never have seen hide nor hair of his parents even after many, many visits, I have started to suspect that they're just figments of his imagination, and that Li'l Random was not born like a normal man but just sprang randomly from some dark and twisty hole in the ground.

I was hanging out at Li'l Random's place on Thursday afternoon as we were both waiting for our respective parental units to arrive in town when a contractor he had called to inspect the hail damage on his roof rang the doorbell. When The Random One answered the door, the contractor asked "Is Li'l Random home?" I immediately suspected that the contractor's question was due to his assuming that Li'l Random was actually the teenaged son of the house's owner; when Li'l Random told him that he was Li'l Random there was a pause before the contractor blurted out "No way you're old enough to own a house." I cried out "I knew it!" at which point the contractor poked his head around the corner to see me, recognized that I was most assuredly not teenaged, and asked if I was really Li'l Random, assuming that we were trying to prank him. Somehow the joy of mocking Li'l Babyface lost a little bit of its luster with the realization that I was visibly recognizable as being "the old guy"; didn't stop me from doing it, though.

That last bit reminds me; my former college roomie The Old Man recently started up a Facebook page; after I added him as a friend I told him that I was now in the same position he was in in college, surrounded by a social circle who are a few years younger and who insist on rubbing it in my face -- I told him I thought that was probably what they called "karma."

I had been planning on introducing Cap'n Peanut to my folks as "one of those bad influences you always warned me about," but dad went up and introduced himself before I got a chance. However, when Li'l Random met them, I was able to reference the fact that a while back mom had asked if my adopting him as my Li'l Brother meant that he was replacing our old cat that we always referred to as my little brother when I was younger by introducing him thusly: "Mom, Dad, this is Itty Bitty."

Last night my parents capped off their visit by taking my best buds PigPen and Li'l Random out to dinner with us; wish Cap'n Shack-Fu could have been there to make the set complete, but at least they got to meet him when he was deployed to Miamuh. As it was, I had a good time seeing two of my Best Friends interacting with the parental units. I really enjoyed seeing just how often my mom was able to fluster Li'l Random; the best was probably when the waitress was about to take his order, and mom interrupted to ask if he'd found anything on the kiddie menu. Don't think she ever really managed to get PigPen, sadly, but he is pretty hard to fluster, and she was on good behavior and didn't bring her full complement to bear.

*Shoving the coffee table up against the couch is pretty much the universal sign at our place that someone's about to get their ass kicked; 99% of the time it's me.
**Note to self: update the will.

Impaired Vision Quest

A few weeks back I was chatting with Flunky online and he asked me if I had gotten back into martial arts yet. I told him I hadn't, but had been considering checking out the judo program that's just around the corner from our place. By the end of our conversation, I had decided two things:

1. I was going to start taking judo classes as soon as possible
2. I was going to do my darndest to keep it a secret from The Lovable PigPen for as long as possible in hopes of maybe catching him off guard during one of our semi-regular wrestling matches.

I of course had to fill in a handful of people on the plan, lest my head explode from the burden of trying to keep it inside; seriously, if someone tells me something in confidence and asks me to keep it to myself, I will take it to my grave, but if it's a secret about myself, I can't help spilling the beans -- take my experience trying to keep a lid on my writing of In a Cabin as proof of that. Keeping the secret from PigPen became harder and harder as I started actually taking classes, if for no other reason than out of all of my friends, the one I most wanted to talk to about everything I was learning was the one person I was trying to keep it all from. By my third class I had lost count of how many times I had almost related some judo anecdote to him; you'd be amazed how many things in my day-to-day life seemed to inspire me to wax poetic on judo class.

But I somehow still managed to keep my mouth shut around him, although the pressure made me itchy to pick a fight with him so I could try to use one of the moves I'd learned to take him down. I planned and visualized exactly how I was going to set up and execute the move, and began to actually let myself believe that I could pull this off. There were a couple of stumbling blocks, though. The first was that due to allergy problems, tons of overtime at work, and the like, I found it impossible to goad PigPen into any sort of sparring at all for over a week; quite frustrating. But not nearly as frustrating as the second stumbling block; when I finally did manage to pick a fight with PigPen, he was just too damned good for my meager skills to accomplish much of anything. After 13 years of wrestling, even when he isn't going all out trying to kick my butt, his natural defensive stance and instincts served to keep me from getting him off balance enough to complete any of my moves.

This, of course, frustrated me greatly.

That frustration eventually gave way to amusement as PigPen noticed the frustration and started trying to talk me out of it, complementing me on how well I was doing; when a leg sweep from the guard position I attempted almost worked and PigPen began telling me very enthusiastically that that was exactly what I needed to do, good job, I was finally starting to get it, etc., well, it was all too much for me, and I finally confessed my failed plan.

Thankfully, he did not rub my face in my inability to carry out my plan to finally be able to use the phrase on him that he uses on my daily -- "I fear you are underestimating the sneakiness" -- but rather told me that he could tell a definite improvement in my ground skills, and was very encouraging about me continuing on with the classes.

Gee, maybe he's not the personification of ultimate evil after all . . .

Seriously, though, when I first told Li'l Random about my super-sneaky plan, his immediate question was "So are you doing this to learn judo, or so you can beat PigPen?" I have to admit, being able to feel like I can give PigPen more of a run for his money was a big motivator, and if I could have succeeded in my initial super-sneaky plan and taken PigPen down, let alone submitted him, I could have died a happy man right then and there. But honestly, trying to get into judo or jiu-jitsu or the like has been something I've thought about off and on for years and years -- I was *this* close to taking a place up on its offer of two free lessons back in Stillwater -- but just never was able to work up the nerve to do anything about it. But now, thanks to PigPen semi-regularly kicking my butt all over the living room, I finally possessed enough self-confidence to go and sign up for the class even without him or Squiggly there to act as a safety-net of familiar faces like in our karate class.

Now, you might be asking "how does getting your butt kicked regularly build confidence?" That does seem a bit counterintuitive and contradictory, doesn't it? But the biggest thing that kept me from pursuing a martial arts class over the years is the deep-seated fear of making a fool of myself, of not being able to keep up, not being able to learn, etc. And while my wrestling matches with PigPen do occasionally veer into the "making a fool of myself" realm, the fact of the matter is that thanks to his coaching I've noticed a distinct improvement in my skills; sure, I'm nowhere near being proficient, but knowing that just getting the haphazard instruction from PigPen during our random sessions has reaped benefits has made me hungry to see just how much more I can learn with a regular, structured class. And if I can one day use what I learn in the class to turn the tables on the person responsible for giving me the self-confidence to take the class, well, I think that's a symmetry that PigPen would appreciate.

Mid-Week Ramblings

Some random tidbits today; I was tempted to split this up into a "karate-themed" post and a "non-karate-themed" post to pad my posting numbers, but finally decided to just alternate between them in the post. I bet you're all really glad I shared that useless information with you, huh?

• A couple of weekends ago Squiggly and I attended a "takedown and submission" workshop taught by the head of Red Tiger Karate. It was pretty cool, although I wish it had lasted a bit longer since we wound up rushing through everything so quickly that we barely had time to practice any particular move more than a couple of times. Still, it did confirm what I had suspected, which is that I would much rather be taking a grappling style martial art such as judo or jujitsu than karate; not that I don't enjoy karate, it's just that I think I'd enjoy the other styles more. Of course, until I can find a judo/jujitsu class that's as affordable as Red Tiger is, it's a moot point.
  
  
• For the first time since its inception oh so many weeks ago, I was unable to come up with a story to submit to Write in the Thick of It. I blame my assigned genre; whereas last time my assigned genre of "western" inspired me, this time around the assigned genre of "mystery" killed all creative juices. I wouldn't feel quite so bad about not entering something if it weren't for the fact that there was apparently a plague of writers block, resulting in there only being two entries: Redneck Diva and Hillbilly Mom. Today's your last day to vote for a winner; with luck, I'll be up to submitting something the next time around.
  
  
• In addition to PigPen, I have a new constant sparring partner: Cap'n Shack-Fu. You see, following our swimming pool grappling a few weeks ago, Shack-Attack has taken it upon himself to continually test my battle readiness. The evening after the "takedown and submission" seminar he had me show him some of the things we'd learned, as well as a couple of the self-defense moves from our regular karate class, before he decided it was time to run me through the Cap'n Shack-Fu Self-Defense Crash Course, much to the amusement of Squiggly who got to watch Coach Shack-Fu put me through my paces. Unfortunately, the fact that I jammed one of my fingers pretty badly last week* meant that Shack-Fu was unable to engage me in battle before heading off to OK as he obviously wanted to, which is a shame, really, since I was enjoying the fact that, for once, it wasn't me being the instigator.
  
  
• Later on today I'm going to have a phone interview with a reporter for MSNBC.com -- please note the ".com," which means that this will be an Internet article, and not something televised on MSNBC, as a few of the people I've told have assumed. As for why she's interviewing me, well, it's because of CoIM; in particular, my "Cap'n TMI" blog post, which ties into an article she's writing on people's tendency to overshare. I think there's probably a betting pool going on just how much I'm going to overshare during the interview.
  
  
• You know what the most difficult thing about karate is for me right now? It's not learning the kata or feeling comfortable with the techniques; it's not getting up to speed with the conditioning or enduring the constructive criticism of the instructors; it's not even the thought of having to perform my kata in front of an audience at the tournament or having to start sparring,**; no, the hardest part for me is not comparing myself and my progress to fellow white belt PigPen. I actually have done a pretty good job of just focusing on how much improvement I'm showing compared to when I started without trying to use anyone else as a measuring stick, but every once in a while that foolishly competitive side of myself rears its moronic head.
  
  
• Last night I updated the CoIM Cast List to include Cap'n Bubbles, as well as updating several people's nicknames, character descriptions, catch-phrases, and the like. I probably would have tinkered with it more but I got distracted by the siren call of new episodes of The Closer, Eureka, and Pirate Master, as well as the DVD of an excellent Indie horror flick Behind the Mask: The Rise of Leslie Vernon*** which is the first DVD I've been compelled to listen to the full commentary of in many many moons. So please, check out the updated list, but don't be too surprised if it gets updated again soon -- then again, don't be too surprised if it takes another three or four months to get updated. Because that's the way I roll.
  
  
• It's a little less than 4 weeks until our tournament, where I have to perform my kata in front of a whole bunch of people; it's kinda-sorta a competition, since they'll be awarding first and second place, but I'm going to do my best to just think of it as "something I've got to do in order to take my belt test."
  
  
• I'm experimenting with exposing different blog monkey groups to each other; on my recent Frilly's Friday I invited Li'l Random along so that he and Zinger could meet. Now, I've provided Cap'n Shack-Fu with Bubblegum Tate's phone number since Tate lives not too far from where Shack-Fu is stationed. The next step: having representatives from three different groups converge. Zinger has expressed concern that such crossing of blog monkey groups could cause some sort of rift in space and time, but I think we've concluded that as long as he and Bizarro-Zinger never meet, we should be okay.
  

*PigPen and Squiggly's Sis can testify to the load cracking sound it made when it happened, as well as to the not-nice-words which escaped from my mouth at the same time
**Both of which are just far enough away for me to be in denial about them
***I know there aren't many horror fans among you blog monkeys, but for those who are, I highly, highly recommend Behind the Mask. Funny and creepy, self-referential without being over-indulgent; think I might have just enough to say about it to resurrect Movie Monday next week . . . maybe.

Fragmented Friday is also a Frilly's Friday!

• Every once in a blue moon, Zinger's work schedule allows him to pass through Denton on his way back from Bridgeport around noon or so; on these occasions, we get together at one of my favorite restaurants in town, Frilly's. Today is such a day.
  
  
• Not too long ago Li'l Random was talking about how his friends from high school were bugging him to start up a MySpace page; knowing that he also goes by the nickname Lazy Bum, I was pretty sure he was never going to do it on his own, so I created a profile for him; he expressed his appreciation, and I sent him the email and password I'd used so that he could change them over to his own. Of course, being a Lazy Bum*, he hasn't looked at it since I initially showed it to him. Feeling a bit bored, and needing to find a way to amuse myself to keep my mind of the soap opera that my life recently become, I decided to spruce the page up a bit. If you hurry, you might get to see it before he does.
  
  
• Speaking of ways to keep my mind off of my soap opera style problems, I have discovered that practicing my karate techniques and kata is highly therapeutic.
  
  
• Last night Cap'n Shack-Fu organized a Caravan of Love to help Fluffy move from Lewisville to Denton; I think poor Fluffy was torn between gratitude at the help and exasperation over the fact that HyperForce 3000 was operating at full hyperactive steam.
  
  
• Upon hearing last night about my MySpace tinkering on Li'l Random's behalf, Cap'n Bubbles tried to lay a guilt trip on me because I had found time to make a MySpace page for Li'l Random but hadn't found time to add her to the Cast List. However, she apparently didn't consider a couple of things. First of all, I am a slave to my creative muse, and that muse lent me inspiration for a gag MySpace page before it did a substantial Cast List entry, and so that is what I did. Second of all, the surest way to make sure I don't get inspiration for something is to try to guilt trip me about it. Don't worry, you shall be added, Cap'n Bubbles; just don't know when.
  
  
• Tomorrow morning I'll be going to a "takedown and submissions" seminar in Carollton put on by my karate class. PigPen had been planning on going as well, but is now going to be in Oklahoma for the next few days. I have mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, if he went to it then he would be able to help me remember everything they cover, since he tends to pick up on the physical stuff faster than I do. On the other hand, there's a part of me that's relieved that he won't be there to possibly learn new ways to beat up on me. But the gripping hand is that, since this is basically grappling, he probably knows a good deal of it anyway, and all that this is going to do is reduce the amount by which I get my butt kicked when I succumb to my self-destructive urge to pick fights with him. Of course, then there's the fear that if I do improve my skills, he'll just go "Ooo, Todd is putting up more of a fight now, time to stop going easy on him!'
  
  
• While Cap'n Shack-Fu and I were sparring in the pool on Saturday, he was taking it slow and easy, trying to talk me through different tactics. At one point he was saying something about how with my size I should be able to do some damage, to which I replied "Is that a fat joke?" Poor Shack got this shocked look on his face, and dropped his guard, at which point I lunged at him and was able to make me first successful dunking of an opponent of the day. Using psychological warfare to my advantage: probably my favorite memory of the weekend. To commemorate this, I have approximately 347 more occasions in the following week to accuse Shack-Fu of making fat jokes; it just never gets old. Well, not for me, anyway . . .

*Well, there's also the fact that he hasn't gotten Internet service at his new house yet, but I prefer the "Lazy Bum" theory

The Long Weekend

I am exhausted.

Spent the bulk of Saturday helping Li'l Random move into his new house, and then most of the moving crew headed over to Squiggly's apartment complex to swim for a few hours, said swimming becoming much more strenuous after Cap'n Shack-Fu decided that he was going to teach me some water defense techniques -- in other words, water wrestling. After that we all headed back to my place to watch movies and stayed up visiting until around 1 in the morning. Then on Sunday got up early for church, then a group of us headed out to Lake Ray Roberts to spend the afternoon with Mr. and Mrs. Smooth Money on their recently purchased pontoon boat. Our lake adventure was cut a bit short when the boat died on us and we had to get a tow back to the loading dock, so after that we headed back to Squiggly's, invited several of the other Singles who hadn't been able to make it out to the lake, and had a little pool party, even though only three or four of us did any actual swimming. This time in the pool PigPen decided to first wear me out by inventing a water polo-ish game before then stalking towards me and saying "Let's see what all you learned from Shack-Fu last night." So then after getting my butt thoroughly kicked and my head repeatedly dunked in front of a large group of on-lookers, it wasn't long before everyone headed home. The Boys of Benjiman Street stayed up watching the tape of The Ultimate Fighter finale which led, in a roundabout way, to PigPen giving me some wrestling pointers. Then last night Squiggly and I headed down to Flower Mound to catch an extra session of our karate lessons, which was pretty cool because it was a smaller group and I wound up getting some one on one instruction in which I finally got some positive feedback and constructive criticism. However, doing the cardio, running through the techniques, and practicing my kata nonstop for over half an hour in a poorly air-conditioned room while wearing the heat-trapping gi took what little energy I had left after the rest of the weekend and sucked it right out of me.

Like I said: I'm exhausted.

But I'd do it all over again.

Ultimate Benjiman Street Fighting Presents: PigPen "The Humiliator" Diablo vs. Cap'n Todd "The Hacker" Neurotic

Last Wednesday night I was channel flipping, trying to find a way to entertain myself, when I remembered that I hadn't checked the mail which meant there might have been some new Netflix waiting for me. Since our mailbox is located at the end of the street, I grabbed my keys and slipped on my shoes. As I headed out to the street, I discovered that PigPen and his friend Crawdad, who just moved down from Oklahoma, had gotten back from dinner and were just standing around outside visiting. I said hi, strolled down to the mailbox, was disappointed to find no Netflix waiting for me, strolled back to the house, tried to be unobtrusive so as not to interrupt the two visiting, and was promptly nailed in the side of the head by a wadded up ball of paper courtesy of PigPen. Nodding to myself, I bent over to pick the paper up, and placed it in my pocket. PigPen told Crawdad, "He's going to be saving that for later," and I said "Yes, yes I am," and headed back inside. I had now found how I was going to entertain myself for the evening.

I don't think I waited too terribly long before returning the paper wad to PigPen; I don't have a lot of patience at the best of times, and, while I hadn't been in one of my violent moods before, the opening unexpected salvo from PigPen outside had more than taken care of that. I actually managed to catch him unawares for once, and he complimented me for my effort with that tone of voice that suggested the game was well and truly on now. A short time later he launched it back at me, simultaneously lunging forward to try to retrieve it as it rebounded off my skull; I lunged as well, and was able to grasp the paper wad first. My victory was short-lived, as I found my wrist suddenly caught in PigPen's grip o' steel; my attempts to extricate myself and his attempts to pry open my hand soon devolved into a full-on wrestling match for control of the paper. I put up as much of a struggle as I could, but the eventual outcome was inevitable, and PigPen wrested the prize from my fingers. We then returned to our respective seats to catch our breaths and await the next move.

When PigPen finally unleashed his next shot at me, he followed it up with a change in tactics. "Now, Todd, I'm going to give you an option," he said. "You can take the paper, throw it away, and we'll have a truce; or, you can keep it, and pay the consequences."

Now, I ask you: how do you think that I would respond to such a statement? Even if I wasn't already in battle-mode after our grappling match, I think I would have been after that bit of condescension.* ”Now, Todd," his tone seemed to say, "you know you don't stand a snowball's chance in h-e-double-hockey-sticks of beating me, so why don't you just be a good little wimp and spare yourself any further humiliation at my hands? I doubt I could think less of you than I do right now, but why take that chance?"

Was I reading a bit too much into his tone? All signs** point to yes; but, regardless of his actual intent, at that moment I felt like I had been challenged, and I'd be danged if I was going to back down. So, back went the paper into my pocket, awaiting an opportunity to use it to prod the sleeping giant again. When I saw an opportunity and launched it at him, huge "yeah, that's right, I have a death wish" smile plastered on my face, his response was a world-weary sigh, followed by a slow shaking of his head. "Todd, Todd, Todd," he said, "you know you brought this on yourself."

And so began Round 2 of our what I generously call our wrestling match, but which is probably more accurately described as "a demonstration of PigPen's complete and total physical superiority over me.”

Now, I don't know if it was because I was just worn out from our first go-round, or if PigPen had decided after I had rejected his offer of a truce that he was going to teach me a lesson about challenging my betters, but Round 2 was much more lopsided than Round 1, with PigPen totally neutralizing me easily with his many years of wrestling experience, so it wasn't long before I cried "uncle" and retreated to my corner to recuperate. However, since, as mentioned previously, I have a bit of a death wish, once I managed to catch my breath somewhat, I found myself mouthing off in order to instigate Round 3.

Now, if I had thought Round 2 was lopsided, it was nothing compared to Round 3, where my limited strength and lousy conditioning totally gave out on me, and PigPen utilized his superior strength and skill to toss me around like a practice dummy. It wasn't long before he got my back and forced me face down into our brand new carpet, pulling both of my hands above my head and pinning them with one hand while his other hand bounced the paper wad off my head repeatedly, each bounce punctuated by the rhythm of his diatribe: "If you'd [bounce] just thrown [bounce] it away [bounce] like I said [bounce], but no! [bounce] Now see [bounce] what you've done [bounce] to yourself [bounce]" etc., etc.

Sounds pretty humiliating and demoralizing, huh? It was -- and yet at the same time, it was totally hilarious to me. Having pushed and prodded and pestered him -- all the while knowing that I was signing the death warrant on what I laughingly call my pride-- I don't begrudge PigPen his display at all; I pretty much brought it on myself. So, even as degrading as the situation was, it's not the thing that left me feeling totally embarrassed and loathe to retell the story.

No, you see, as I lay there, face down in the brand new carpet, struggling to breathe due to being winded from the struggle and the huge peals of laughter racking my body at the absurdity of my situation, I took in a huge gasp of air which unfortunately also brought with it a sizeable chunk of brand new carpet fuzz which lodged itself in my throat. I instantly began hacking and coughing like crazy. PigPen immediately asked if I was okay; when I choked out "NO!" in between coughs he released me from his grip o' steel and I quickly stumbled into the kitchen, where I spent the next 30-45 minutes gripped in heaving convulsions trying to expel the incredibly persistent piece of carpet. The kicker to the whole thing was that it lead to me vomiting a few times; to understand how this affected me, you have to know that, as a general rule, I don't vomit. Prior to that night, there have been a total of three occasions in my memory when I have thrown up, and each one of those times I was deathly ill with the flu. *** At that point in time, the fact that my night of wrestling had ended with me standing over a sink, puking like crazy struck me as proof that I was out of my league, making a fool of myself, establishing myself as a laughingstock, etc. etc. Never mind that there's no correlation between how well I did or didn't do grappling with PigPen and the fact that I accidentally inhaled something that made me vomit -- well, outside of the fact that it was my not doing very well grappling with PigPen that lead to me being face down in the carpet and therefore in the position to inhale something which made me vomit . . . so maybe there is a bit of a correlation after all . . . Anyhow, I found myself apologizing to PigPen for the situation, and he kept telling me to shut up and let it go, there was nothing to apologize for or be ashamed of. But those words went in one ear and out the other; the shame had set in, and would not be easily dislodged.

About the time that I had finally managed to get my heaving under control, I saw the wad of paper go floating past my head, only to land on the kitchen tile. "Now, I tossed it to you gently," PigPen said from the other room "and I'm giving you another chance to just throw it away." And of course, any sane person, having just been thoroughly beaten and then thrown up a good portion of their dinner, would quickly thank PigPen for his magnanimous gesture, and throw the offending projectile away.

I have never claimed to be a sane person.

Think of it as an after-effect of the shame of how Round 3 ended, mingled with light-headedness from the vomiting; horribly self-conscious about being perceived as a wimp, I didn't want to complete the image by giving in. Not that I was planning on launching another battle with him anytime soon, mind you; I might be crazy, but I’m not totally stupid. No, in my mind, I would save the instigating object until the next day, when I was recovered and he wouldn't be expecting it. Of course, I should have known better than to try to pull one over on PigPen; about 30 minutes later, the following conversation took place:

PigPen: So, Todd . . . did you throw it away?
Me: What, do you think I'm crazy?
PigPen: [pause] Did you throw it away?
Me: After what I just went through?
PigPen: [slightly longer pause] Did you throw it away?
Me: What would you do if I said no?
PigPen: [silently stares]
Me: What would you do if I said yes?
PigPen: [silently stares some more]
Me: What would you do if I said maybe?
PigPen: The question is, what are you going to say? [pause] Did you throw it away?

At that point, unable to keep it under control any longer, I broke into nervous "oh, crap, he's going to kill me now, isn't he?" laughter; PigPen once again sighed and shook his head in an "I can't believe this dope has managed to survive 30-plus years, let alone graduated with an honor's degree" sort of way before advancing on me; After easily thwarting my half-hearted struggle he finally did what he should have done in the first place if he really wanted to put an end to the mess, and threw it away himself.

Party-pooper.

A little while later, while we were watching TV, PigPen suddenly got an evil grin on his face, turned to me, and made a joke about the preceding which I refuse to share on a family-friendly blog****; while I laughed, I also inwardly groaned because I knew that now, armed with a naughty punch line, PigPen was not going to let the story drop. And indeed he did not, sharing it with The Anti-Cap'n, Peanut, and Crawdad as soon as he got the chance; and, to compound matters, Crawdad, upon hearing the story, decided to make the naughty punch line into a new nickname for me. So, I am now burdened with an innuendo-laced nickname which I, in all honesty, loathe with a fiery passion, especially since it will only serve to remind me of one of the more humiliating moments in my life.

And yet, the truth is that, up until the new carpet turned on me, I was actually having fun, finally getting a chance to get some aggression out in a way that was a bit more direct than just throwing combinations in PigPen's general direction; sure, PigPen mopped the floor with me, but I have to admit that there's something almost freeing about entering into a competition in which I know beforehand I have absolutely no chance of winning. Which is why I more than likely would have already tried to challenge PigPen to a rematch if it weren't for that other highly embarrassing moment of my previous week which has left a lasting impression a bit more physical than psychological, but more on that later.


*"It wasn't condescension" PigPen told me later, "it was just me slowly and simply explaining to you what was going to happen." Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.
**i.e. my history of neurotic, paranoid, self-loathing behavior
***Two Christmases and a Thanksgiving, by the way
****I would urge PigPen not to reveal his beloved jest at my expense here, but I fear such a plea would fall on deaf ears

What, Fisticuffs?

I've mentioned before that my friendship with PigPen is based largely on mutual antagonism* which primarily manifests itself verbally, but it occasionally manifests physically as well -- if a rubber band enters into the household, the question is not one of "if" one of us will launch it at the head of the other, but rather "when" and "with how much success**" And, of course, the launching of a rubber band*** is frequently followed by a mad scramble and shoving match as we each try to retrieve the projectile before the other.

Yes, I am a nearly-32 year old Sunday School teaching librarian with a Master's degree -- why do you ask?

Anyway, one day last week I awoke consumed with the urge to ratchet this physical antagonism up a few notches. Now this is far from the first time I've fallen into such a mood -- many's the time I attempted to engage Flunky and G'ovich in battle back in my undergraduate years -- but this is the first time in ages that the fightin' mood has coincided with my having a viable opponent/target for my rampant aggression. Why that particular morning? Who knows? Maybe it was a result of the stress of having to deal with the storm and flooding and all the after-effects of the previous week; maybe it was a result of my having watched way too much UFC/IFL/Bodogfights/etc. over the last several months; maybe it was the combination of allergies, sleep deprivation, and mucho medication playing havoc with my internal chemical balance; maybe I just have a death wish. Whatever the cause, all I know is that I was in the mood to pick a fight, and what better person to pick it with than my good friend and constant nemesis PigPen.

Now, when I say "fight," I don't mean "beat each other to a pulp," of course -- especially since odds are pretty danged good that, in such a situation, I would wind up being the pulp. Instead I mean good ol' fashioned rough-housing – you know, the kind you expect out of teenage ruffians and not thirty-something librarians -- which is why when these "must hit something!" moods hit me I don’t go out looking to bust some heads, but instead seek out one of my good friends who I feel doesn't mind exchanging a punch or two from time to time and who I can trust to, at worst, bruise me but not break me -- I may be crazy, self-destructive, and deluded, but I ain't stupid.

But I digress.

This odd mood struck me on the day that PigPen and I spent restoring our house to livable conditions following the installation of our new carpet. I don't even recall what my attempts to goad PigPen into a physical altercation were, exactly -- probably a launched projectile here, a shove there, a slightly-less-than-playful punch in the arm or two for good measure -- I just know that at one point he stopped, looked at me curiously and said "You're in a violent mood today, aren't you?"

"Yes, yes I am," I replied.

"Do you ever get in a mood where you just want to punch some--"

"Yes!" I said quickly, cutting him off mid-thought, and then punching him.

In the arm.

After he offered.

And then I let him punch me in return.

Because, maybe I am stupid after all.

But again, I digress.

Having been found out in my oh-so-subtle manipulation, I told PigPen that he should feel free to either tell me to back off or just knock me the #!@$&# out, whichever he saw fit. Trooper that he is, PigPen put up with my needling behavior with good cheer and the occasional bit of retaliation but, outside of a brief scuffle or two****, I ended the day never getting a chance to fully exorcise the need for violence which had bubbled up to the surface.*****

A few days later, one of PigPen's pals was telling us about a local bar which has started up a boxing night on Thursdays. Supposedly, the bar charges people for the chance to put on boxing gear, climb into the ring, and beat up on each other for three one-minute rounds. PigPen's eyes lit up, and he immediately started trying to talk Peanut and me into it. "You could work out all of your aggression that way," he told me, trying to tap into my violent mood from a few days earlier. For the next couple of days, when PigPen would successfully land a verbal jab, I would often respond with a mildly threatening "So, what time on Thursday?" type comment while cracking my knuckles of punching my fist menacingly into my palm. A real tough guy, I am. Of course, the odds of me actually getting into the ring with PigPen were slim and none; the reasons are threefold:

1. PigPen and I are in vastly different weight classes; unfortunately, this is because the bulk of my bulk is housed around my gut, which is not exactly effective in a boxing situation; I make a big, slow moving target.
   
2. Long-time athlete PigPen has a commanding edge on me in strength, speed, and stamina, all of which, if I'm not mistaken, are kind of important factors in the whole boxing thing
3. PigPen: knows how to box, owns his own boxing gear, and has been in his fair share of fights in his life, both for fun and for real. Me: not so much. And by "not so much" I mean "not at all."
   

In other words, while I have become resigned to the fact that PigPen is going to kick the crap out of me pretty much consistently in any and all sports, and I went into my trying-to-goad-him-into-a-fight mode knowing full well that if I succeeded he would totally thrash me, I really don't feel like paying money to have him beat the crap out of me in front of a room full of people.

And yet . . .

And yet . . .

And yet, there is this small, self-destructive part of me which finds the idea of getting in the ring and swinging away incredibly appealing. And while all the logic in the world tells me that doing so would be a horrible, horrible mistake, there's that primal part of me that screams at me for shrinking away because here I am, less than three weeks shy of my 32nd birthday, and I've never been in a fight in my life. Ever. Sure, I've done the usual horsing around with the guys, wrestling and trading punches and the like, and I know that getting in the boxing ring with a friend wouldn't be the same as a knock-down-drag-out fight -- but at the same time, I have this feeling that, even if we might think it's just a friendly little sparring match, once the gear is on and we're in the ring surrounded by a room full of people, the mixture of adrenaline and fear of embarrassment and desire to win would take over and all decorum and restraint would fly out the window. I find the thought of this both appealing and appalling; I really need a shrink.

While I told PigPen -- who is, by the way, pretty determined to go to this place and box somebody, he doesn't really care who -- my "don't want to pay money to let folks watch you kick my ass" reasoning, I also told him that if he wanted someone to spar/train with, I would gladly serve as his punching bag******. So on Sunday night he got out his boxing gear; he put on the gloves, I slipped on the hook and jab pads, and he started working through combinations. After a while he offered to switch it up and we traded gloves and pads so that I could flail blindly at them like a drunken monkey. PigPen slipped into coaching mode, trying to give me pointers on the basics; I have yet to decide if this was a return of his attempts to break me of my negative self-image, or if he's trying to build up my confidence so that I foolishly climb into the ring with him as part of his incredibly intricate plan to kill me following a long string of psychologically scarring experiences: As the details have been laid out to me so far, Phase One involves unleashing a pack of wild dogs on me; Phase Two involves forcing me to imbibe great amounts of alcohol and have unprotected, pre-marital sex with a woman of loose morals; Phase Three is still cloaked in secrecy, but humiliating me with a public beating that I paid for seems about par for the course*******

But, once more, I digress.

By the end of our brief boxing session, a few things had occurred to me:

• Throwing punches in Coach PigPen's general direction was highly satisfying; not as satisfying as actually landing punches on The Coach, true, but satisfying nonetheless.
• Boxing is one heck of a work out: in almost no time I was sweating like Peanut after he eats hot wings********
• At this point in time there’s pretty much no way I'm going to get in the ring with PigPen unless he has both hands tied behind his back, his feet shackled together, and a blindfold on********* -- and even then, I'd be leery. And yet . . .
  

And yet . . . when he jokingly suggested we move stuff around to give ourselves enough room to actually spar, that death-wish part of me wanted to say “Hells, yeah!” I’m obviously sick in the head.

Anyway, the long and the short of it is this: I want to learn how to fight. Boxing, wrestling, karate, judo, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Carggite tri-jitsu -- although that last one might be a bit hard for me to pull off -- I don't care. It’s good exercise, a potential release for stress, and, to be honest, I hate feeling like I’m the only guy I know who doesn’t know how to defend himself.

Plus, if there’s a small chance that it could result in me actually landing a punch on PigPen someday . . . well, then the resultant beating I receive in return will be all worth it.


*Yes, PigPen, for the record and for all the world of blog monkeys who actually read these foot notes to see, I fully cop to the fact that I antagonize you as much as you antagonize me -- except for those times when it amuses me to play the victim and paint you as the devil. Which is, I admit, about 90% of the time . . .
**Quick answer is that my success rate is inversely proportional to PigPen's, i.e. I'm a crappy shot and he's not
***Or couch pillow or rolled up straw wrapper or nerf ball or plastic bottle or . . .
****One such skirmish ended after my thought of "I should probably take off my glasses" was followed swiftly by PigPen accidentally sending my eyewear flying across the room; I was game to continue half-blind, but then we got an invite to dinner and the violence was sadly cut short
*****Although, going to see Hot Fuzz that evening did go a long way to quenching my thirst for confrontation: gunfire, explosions, serial killings, old women getting kicked in the face --everything I could have wished for and more!
******Not sure if "punching bag" is a step up or down from "whipping boy"
******* The amount of detail being put into these plans to kill me is worrisome. I mean, my plans for *his* death have no psychological warfare in them at all; I need to step my game up!
********A trait that earned him the nick-name “Sweaty” from our waitress last weekend
*********Oh, and his mouth wired shut, but I think that's pretty much a constant, unspoken wish with most people dealing with him

It's a Guy Thing pt.3 - Talkin' Trash About Trash Talkin'

Now, as much as I miss Hanging Out With The Guys, it's not all fun and games; sometimes its intense frustration and games, or psychological torture and games, or even murderous rage and games; can you spot the commonality in all of these?


After 18 years of couch-potato life, I was finally dragged off my lazy butt and pushed into athletic activity during my time at Parker; in the beginning, it was primarily basketball and volleyball, but other activities would later creep in. While the exercise was definitely needed, and I was enjoying the opportunity to finally Hang Out With The Guys on the courts, there were a few factors that kept me from fully enjoying the experience at the time.

The first was my total lack of skill, about which I couldn't help but feel self-conscious; this was a big part of the “embarrassing self on purpose vs. embarrassing self on accident” discussion between G’ovich and myself. Going out, trying me best, and falling flat on my face was never fun; I don’t care how often people tell you “trying your best is all that matters,” it never rings true to the recipient of the advice, who feel patronized; or, at least, I usually did. Yes, as I played more and more, I started to improve; the only problem is, as I improved, so did my friends; the gap between us might have shrunk a little, but it was still pretty significant. And no matter how much they might try to tell me that they didn't care, that I didn't have anything to prove, I still felt like I did; I didn’t want to Hang Out With The Guys and feel like I was a dead weight.

Part of this was due to the second factor: my competitive nature. While I might not have inherited a full-blown case of over-competitiveness from my dad's side of the family (my mom swears she once saw his cousins nearly get into a fist fight over a game of charades), I still pack a pretty large dose. I don't necessarily have to win every single time; I just have to not lose every single time; or, at the very least, not get beaten down like a dog every single time. And, since I knew all of The Guys were at least as competitive as I was, and most of them probably more so, every time I started to feel like I was sucking, I felt like I was dragging them down with me, earning their eternal contempt, so on and so forth, you know the drill by now.

And then there was the third factor: trash talk. By now you're all familiar with Dr. G'ovich's powerful ability to mess with my mind, his uncanny ability to echo the negative self-images that were bouncing around in my head; it was on the field of athletic competition that his abilities were at their most destructive. I know to him it was just part of the game, just a way to psyche out the opponent to gain an advantage; to young, unstable, manic-depressive Cap'n Low Self Esteem, it was an affirmation that he was the suckiest player to ever disgrace the field of play; no matter how much I might be able to accept it wasn't meant as a personal attack before or after the game, in the heat of the moment it killed me, every time; sometimes it manifested as anger at him, sometimes anger at myself, sometimes both; I honestly think the self-directed anger often won out, with the trash talk triggering factor two and its “Why aren’t you good enough?” spiel.

You may be wondering to yourselves why the heck I would be missing something that was obviously such a horrible experience for me; very good question. The answer is, of course, that it wasn't always horrible; I had plenty of fun times playing ball; those good times just don't stay in the memory as well as the bad ones; now, that trait I got from my great-grandmother, who held a grudge until the day she died against a girl who ticked her off when she was in kindergarten.

Out of all the different sports we played, basketball was probably my least favorite, the one I was least confident in, and therefore the one where the trash talk bothered me the most; I enjoyed volleyball quite a bit more, mostly because I felt I could see more improvement in my game play than I could in b-ball. I was also introduced to the joys of racquetball by Zinger, although it would be a while before I would really come to enjoy it whole-heartedly, since the Stonehearted one refused to take pity on me, and stomped my butt consistently (see earlier comment about hating to be beaten down like a dog); it wouldn't be until I taught J.D. to play several years later that I was able to fully enjoy playing the game, even after the danged quick study started to also stomp my butt consistently; the secret of said enjoyment being that our semester of playing coincided with one my the year I roomed with The Old Man, which was one of my more mentally stable semesters.

One other form of competition I enjoyed when Hanging Out With The Guys; beating the crap out of each other. Wrestling, trading punches, trading kicks, swatting the heck out of each other with plastic swords from the dollar store: it was all good. Now, this might sound strange coming from Cap’n “I’m a Lover, Not a Fighter”, but it’s the truth. I suppose part of it was me finally getting in touch with the aggressive part of myself which I had suppressed for so long, or, perhaps more accurately, the aggressive part of myself finally breaking free of its restraints during my time of near mental-breakdown; another part of it was feeling like I could almost hold my own with G’ovich and Flunky in the “beat the crap out of each other” arena at the time (although the You realize you’re not hurting me at all incident (for more of which, see the latest entry at Curse You G’ovich) seemed to put the lie to that theory, which (man, is this a bunch of parenthetical comments (just like Princess Bride, eh, Cap’n Disaster) or what?) is possibly why it bothered me so much at the time), which I really couldn’t say about any of the other competitions of the time; and then, of course, there was just the satisfaction of being able to hit the Eeeeeeeeevil one repeatedly in an attempt to inflict on him the same amount of pain physically he inflicted on me mentally; who wouldn’t love that?

Following the Great Parkerite Exodus and J.D. moving to Arkansas, I fell back into slug mode (not to be confused with S.L.U.G.S. mode: Single Liking Un-Gravy-ed Stuff), and would not come out of it until I started working out with Bizarro-Zinger and The Trumpeteer in ’03; unfortunately, once they both moved out of the picture, and I started grad school, I became spud-like yet again; here’s hoping that now that school is all over I can finally get myself back on the work-out wagon; but I digress.

I know that my intense self-consciousness playing sports has led to a lot of problems over the years (see the account of my volleyball self-destruction for a prime example), but I have high hopes that, if called upon to play sports while Hanging Out With The Guys, whether Parkerite Guys or not, the more stable version of myself will be able to just focus on having a good time, not worry about not being the best, and take any trash talk in stride; if G’ovich were to taunt me with a patented “You realize you aren’t hurting me at all” today, I’d like to think that I would not respond in a explosion of anger and frustration, but would instead calmly redouble my efforts to show him what hurting really is; because that’s what Guys do.