Never Trust a Hippie to Teach You How To Punch

Jujut-su class isn't going so well. Last week I had to yell at a kid because he was hitting me too hard. I'm old.

This is the exact Dojo I attended six years ago. I had done my homework to find it. Breaking cinder blocks with my noggin' was not my goal. I wanted something I could use. Something that, if necessary, could get me out of a situation.

I've been in a few physical fights in my life. Most have been during my early teens, when maturity prevents the words from surfacing. One time Chuck, a "good friend", punched me in the mouth after school. He was an alpha type and, looking back, never really a good friend. When I went over to his house, he would toss Chinese stars dangerously in my direction. While his intention was to scare, I'm not sure he would have been too upset if one caught flesh. Previous to the punch in the mouth, Chuck had knocked my school books out of my hands. Friendly teasing I thought and decided to return the favor. Later that day, as we walked toward our homeward bound bus, I saw my chance for retaliation and spilled his books accented with a giggle. Word spread quickly on the bus ride home that he was not pleased and that I was in for a beating. Moments after getting off the bus, I saw his determined knotted face getting closer. I set my books down, put my fists up, and was promptly caught in the jaw by his right hook. Teeth from my lower jaw pierced my cheek resulting in an arterial like spray across the side of my head and I went down.

Miya-Maru Ju-jutsu originated in Japan, but took off in the Bronx. New York is a tough place. The cops need an edge when encountering street fighting men, and this Dojo gave it to them. All the maneuvers are self defensive with an emphasis on controlling the situation there after. This control may involve breaking wrists, arms, and other bones to stop a fight. It was also good exercise.

Sensei Don was an ex FBI agent. He stood approx five foot four inches and was one bad mother-fucker. He wasn't unpleasant, you just knew not to f with him. Everyone had respect for Don. At the beginning of class you bowed with sincerity, and listened when he talked because every verbal morsel was important and interesting. Returning to the Dojo six years later, Don was gone. Only his business partner John remained.

The lady and I had the Dojo to ourselves as no other beginners attened. Having the run of the place came with the dedicated attention of Sensei John. Since John was a talker, this wasn't always a desirable scenario. As if talking to his kids, John would reiterate points in different ways and multiple times until he was sure the knowledge had sunken in. He told us to smile when we practiced falling, blocking punches, and throwing punches because ... well, no one expects you to smile doing those things. He continued making sure we knew that smiling was easier than frowning, it was relaxing, and that when facing an opponent a smile would send strange signals that would perhaps allow you to avoid a physical conflict. Whatever hippie.

John's babbling and unobstructed attention gave birth to an almost complete lack of respect. It is only one of the reasons we decided to take a break from class. The other being the lady doesn't enjoy or know how to punch. I like that in a person.

Double X Chromosome Electronic Goodness

Back before the iPod, I lugged CDs to work everyday. At the end of the week, I'd end up with thirty or so littering my work area. Sometimes I'd be in the mood for those rarely enjoyed nostalgic Metal albums, other times it was the glam rock, and still others I would get in touch with my feminine side. Mirroring that selective what-I'm-in-the-mood-for method of weekly selection, every Sunday I load up the pod with music for the work week. When the iPod capacity is reached, I empty the whole thing and start over. Last night I decided to go with a theme: Just the chicks.

A female singer (sweet or rough) will scratch my musical itch every time. Do I enjoy the music more if they are cute? Or does making good music make them cute? Really, it's all about the music but I am guilty of occasionally listening to something, really wanting to like it, because I find the vocalist attractive.

Being gay from the waist up, I'm blessed with a sensitive side that allows me to cry at movies, decorate with confidence, and cook with an eye on presentation. Thankfully for the lady, I'm straight from the waist down. Still, three-thousand-seven-hundred-eighty-one tracks of nothing but the ladies might eventually put me on the same cycle as the misses. If that happens, I hope Minnesota green lights same sex marriages soon.

Weddings are Easy

Two months ago I completed the invite design for our October wedding. Last night I sealed and stamped the very last invite. It's not just the invites, I have your thank you note printed, ready to have a personal note scribed onto the bare card before being placed into the already prepared stamped envelope. That's assuming you are invited.

Bridesmaids and groomsmen aren't for us. In place of these tuxedo clad, ugly dress wearing unfortunates, we have requested our families accompany us during the ceremony and at the head table. We don't have any wedding colors, and there will not be any flowers.

We may be skimping on some of the trappings, but not on the good-time-party-fun-stuffs. You'll have your choice of meal served to you along with a salad, sides, and desert. The view of downtown from the fourteenth floor is remarkable. We'll be hosting an open bar all night, something that is uncommon for a Minnesota wedding. I can't ask one hundred plus people to travel from Chicago and make them pay for a drink.

I have a few things to do over the next three and a half months: Rent a tux, make table assignments (along with corresponding place cards,) finish the design for our wedding photo sharing web site, and make the center pieces.

My plan is do very little, if anything, in the month proceeding our wedding. I have little tolerance for chaos. We are arriving in Minneapolis for the wedding two nights before festivities commence. I imagine those days spent relaxing. Preparing for what is most certainly going to be a wonderful event. With you in attendance, even better.

Avoiding Cracks to Save Your Mother's Fat

On a regular basis, you can find a handful of nourishment minded employees in the kitchen. Lunch provides an hour to spend talking, forgetting about work, and perhaps playing a game of Uno. Today the lunchketeers, consisting of several OCD riddled co-workers, shared all.

Being one of the OCD stricken, I actually found comfort in not sharing as the office manager talked about unplugging curling irons and obsessive cleaning habits. She was one-upped by tales of multiple return trips home to make sure the garage door had properly shut. Then a spread-sheet happy clothes whore one upped that.

I wear the same clothes a lot and find only a single week is needed to cycle through my "outfits." Partially because I only have a few things that fit tubby me, and partially because I have better things to do with my money, like squirrel it away so I can buy nice clothes when I'm sixty-five.

Not only did this OCD participant have too much to wear, but his clothes made a full rotation before being revisited. Two months weere needed to cycle through his closet. To encourage his plan, he kept records of what was worn, in what combination, and on what date. As tedious as that is, it produces a desirable outcome for the fashionable.

The one upping continued when the next OCD participant shared her fears of becoming fat. To remain slim she eats well balanced meals, exercises daily, and avoids stepping into shadows; If she ever finds herself engulfed in an overweight shadow she quickly side steps, exhales, and holds her breath to prevent a transfer of fat to her body. Perhaps everyone found comfort in sharing, knowing they weren't alone, but this last eccentricity raised the bar so high that no one spoke of peculiar habits for the remainder of the lunch.

I've been jogging for two weeks now. I've increased the length of my sweaty morning jogs to two miles. I've stopped eating late night snacks, and my meal portions are under control. While all of this hard work will eventually result in a thinner version of me, I'm considering an all together new routine that involves casting my shadow on co-workers.

Not a Hickey

I've counted twenty-three mosquito bites on my right arm alone. Risking Malaria is acceptable if I'm able to shoot my friend in the head during a game of paint-ball.

I was an hour late. The week has been so busy my planning suffered. Almost to the park, and ahead of the group, I realized my oh-so-baggy jeans had no belt. Knowing it would be hard to run with my jeans around my ankles and not wanting the mystery of boxers or briefs to be dispelled, I went looking for a trouser support system. I was sent back tracking for forty minutes to the nearest Target where I purchased a belt that was too big, and helped only a little. As I drove back, in communication with the bachelor, I worried about being "That guy."

I'm not the most athletic guy. Frolicking military style in the woods with twenty-three others, shooting paint balls for over six hours took it's toll. Most of these guys were ten or more years younger, and almost half were ex-gymnasts (who are generally an athletic bunch.) This didn't bother me or my paint ball tactics; I always hid and guarded the flag.

I was chicken for most the day and, by the time I had the guts, I lacked the energy. I briefly thought about hiding in my car sitting the last round out, but it was too much damn fun, so I recklessly forged ahead. I had become braver, so I set out along the creek and dove into the brush crawling through the mud on all fours. Not being a stealthy thirty-seven year old, a youngin' got the drop on me and provided me with a welt on my neck that resembles a love bite. If only I would have stuck with my plan, I wouldn't have to wear a turtle neck.

Skipping Lunch Makes Me Giddy

I had a fifteen minute interview last Friday. Sixty-five minutes into the interview, I feel pretty good about my chances. That and I was really hungry at dinner time. Scott (Mr. Editor in Chief) did most of the talking which left all my prepared questions answered. The interview went so well, I'm having trouble remaining subdued.

Being the only graphics guy at my current job, I've become a jack of all trades. Being told the job description, it occurred to me: The job being created calls on all of my abilities. As if ... nah, it couldn't be. But it was. Every time my inside guy informed Scott of another one of my abilities, the possibilities were considered, tasks realized as they pertained to the position, and then added to the job description. This position has been created around my exact skill set.

The impression I made with the images from a week ago was immense. Not only were the images received well and heavily complimented by Scott, they also validated his case for creating this job, resulting in management green-lighting the job's creation. "Very impressed with you as a candidate and individual" and "You'd make a good fit" were just a few of the positive comments relayed. Scott hypothetically went into details about when I could start, if I had to move a family, sell a home, what the salary might be, and that, if all went well with the position, I'd be up for a promotion and raise in under a year. Making sure along the way that I realized nothing was promised.

Through posts, I've shared every detail about my job hunt adventure. My parents however have been kept completely in the dark on purpose. I didn't want to make waves until things looked serious. Until I was flying out for an interview. They are smart people though. Considering they know my friend works there, I suspect they won't be too surprised when I tell them. Chances are, I'll be having that talk soon.

Even Steven Wasn't This Even

Luckily the lady finds my need for order cute. The wedding invites are stamped and ready four months ahead of schedule, I know exactly where all nine remotes I own are, and I could send a Christmas card to your parents in Iowa if I wanted to. Order for me is the fresh breath of comfort that I constantly strive to accomplish, but it's not always for my satisfaction.

In the beginning, I cut the lady a break. She was just starting off in Chicago, so I couldn't see making her spring for half the bills. Getting her financial feet planted firmly on the ground, her share of the bills increased. Currently, we are even steven. If I pick up a bag of spinach, she owes me two dollars. She doesn't pay for my onions, and I don't pay for her glutten-free bread.

I'm the fairest person you'll ever meet. I might be annoying while being fair, but you'll never accuse me of cheating you. That rice-crispie treat was not only cut with precision, but you'll get pick of the halves. When large groups dining out are involved, I don't mind being in charge of the bill because, unlike some, I can accurately add tax and tip to a bill. If you underpay, I have no qualms telling you. That said, I occasionally get stuck throwing in a few extra bucks, but I sleep better knowing the tip was adequate.

Being this down the middle only applies to tangible, monetary situations. I don't mind cooking nearly every meal the lady and I eat and, if I don't feel like cooking, we'll order out. However, you'll then have to worry about the asian ladies getting their paws on me, as well as paying for exactly half of the take out.

Art to be Proud of

What I do at work can hardly be called artistic. For the majority of the time, I print out large scale versions of album covers and adhere them to foam core. Well, the interns do a lot of the adhering. Occasionally, I am presented with a challenging project that actually requires thought and time to accomplish. Most of the time, this is still not art.

A few years ago I applied for a design position at a music label in New York and the need for a portfolio presented itself. Being a designer for lots-o-years, along with a anal organizer, I've been religiously collecting my design work with the eventual goal of creating a portfolio.

Looking through hundreds of past designs, I started to notice a theme; Most of work really sucked. There were glimpses of brilliance, but no maturity or subtleness. I suppose designing merchandising materials, always trying to get someone's attention as they stroll past, my designs tend to scream rather than soothe. Still, I managed to scrape together a collection of examples that I wouldn't be ashamed to share.

Nothing ever came of that job, but I did acquire a set of applicable standards for my design projects; If I don't want to see it in my portfolio, it's not going out the door. This rule requires more time spent conceptualizing (resulting in some missed deadlines,) the welcome side-effect of an ever evolving design maturity, and gave birth to a set design related goals to consider whenever faced with a challenge.

Last March, my L.A. counter-part Dan was laid off. That left two of us to supply the entire country with merchandising materials. With the inclusion of L.A., my work load has easily doubled. I'm unable to adhere to the self imposed portfolio-worthy rule and have been designing nothing but sub par crap. I'm also recycling designs from years past, literally just changing details / album covers to satisfy new requests. With no end in site to the busy work load, I'm in dire need of a day off to calm my design hungry heart. That or a change of scenery.

Greener Than Me

Today I received a Philp K. Dick book shipped in a recycled El Paso taco shell box. I smiled at the novelty of it, and was reminded that I'm just not that green.

That fact that our building doesn't recycle would be a good excuse to refrain, but it doesn't stop us. The lady and I sort all of our cans, bottles, and taco shell containers for the trip to the local recyclery. Driving there of course.

I still subscribe to half a dozen magazines that I barely read and the amount of foam core I've encouraged into the world at work, should keep me up at night.

A light in my car has come on and off regularly for years. I found out it was the emmison when I checked the manual. When I receive the postcard for my annual required emission test, I make sure I go on a day the light is off.

Mitsuaw is a Japanese grocery store that has freshly made Nigiri and various rolls for a reasonable price. Last weekend it sounded good. Checking out, I declined the bag for our grub, but didn't think to carry the four pieces of Nigiri without the aid of a take-home, over-sized, styrofoam container.

In the seventies and eighties, recycling wasn't as popular. The effects of container waste and lack of renewable resources wasn't terribly obvious to our parents. I do remember bringing in soda bottles for the deposit, but that was only because I desired the cash.

Today's kids, while reminding me I'm getting old, also remind me how prevalent recycling is. It's refreshing to receive scornful looks from nieces and nephews if I slip and toss a recyclable item into the trash. It's of no comfort to know that they'll be able to point a finger at me when the world implodes.

Commuters Hate Joggers

I did not get hit by a car. But the bored, seemingly taunting stares make me self-conscious. Am I holding my hands funny like a stroke victim? Does my head, in this particular shade of red worry them? Does my jiggle make them crave Jello?

Calling myself a jogger after hardly a week, seems presumptuous. I'm jogging, but at what point do I become a jogger? When I have to tape my nipples down like a marathon runner? For all they know, I've been running for years and I prefer being tubby.

Six years ago, when I was actually a jogger, I remember passing a SUV with the driver laughing and pointing in my direction. Remembering that vividly years later seems silly. I didn't ask for this brain, and I'm just most certainly stuck with it.

Angie was a rail thin, Jagger lipped, sixth grader with hair seemingly made to be feathered. She flipped me the bird from a passing school bus, demanded I move my "Big head" so she could see the projector screen in science class, and once in speech class crassly spread her legs while shooting me a defiant wink. Gathering these incidents together like this, perhaps Angie fancied me. Regardless, these are merely a few of the biting memories destined to embarrass me till my last breath.

There is a sunny side to this defective "This is your life" nightmare parade of embarrassing moments; I have similarly stuck memories that make me smile. Visions of smiling faces, smells that make me dizzy, and nostalgic childish teenage antics.

So when you pass someone, anyone on the side of the road, don't point, poke fun, or flip them the bird. Because it might be me, and then I'll go to my death bed unable to clear my noggin' of your mean, mean face.