Tae Kwon Dodo

I’m not sure if I’ve gone into this in the past (considering that I now post about as often as there are funny episodes of the Jay Leno Show), but back in June, 10YO started taking taekwondo (which I will refer to as TKD or “asswhippery” from now on). We did it in an attempt to provide him with an outlet for some of his more aggressive tendencies, to teach him about discipline and respect and honor, and to get rid of some of that pesky money we keep trying to save for some reason. We didn’t really know what to expect, but the boy took to it like a Kennedy to alcohol, and is pretty damn good at it. He has rapidly advanced through the ranks, and is now a purple belt, which kinda makes him look like Prince with decent martial arts skills.

Attending lessons was made easy by the fact that they’re taught in the same place where he attends after school care, so it’s a simple matter of showing up, signing him out, changing him in to his uniform (or gi, in Korean), and setting him loose. And because I really didn’t have anything better to do for an hour or so, I sat there in the gymnasium, watching all the kids and a few adults learn the finer points of things called 9 Step Block and Yop Marki Chukyo Marki and Harden Marki, and maybe even a Biz Markie in there somewhere. And as I watched, the same thought crept through my mind repeatedly:

“I can totally do that.”

Bear in mind that is very easy to sit back and watch people do something and think you can do it too, especially when you don’t really know what all goes into it in the first place. It’s the same mentality we have when we watch football and say things like “Man, my GRANDMOTHER could’ve made that catch!” Which might be  true if your grandmother is a 6′3″, 215 lb lightning bolt who runs a 4.4 40 yard dash in pads, but not quite as true if she’s in her 60s or 70s and her main source of exercise is turning the channel from Judge Joe Brown to Wheel of Fortune. We make these assumptions because we tend to focus on the final product, not the process. But even with that in mind, I sat there, thinking that thought as I watched person after person stumble through something I thought should be easy like Sunday morning.

I mentioned that 10YO showed some proficiency in martial arts, and that’s a true statement. However, he’s been gifted with natural ability, and doesn’t see the need in cultivating that into an even-better outcome. In other words, he won’t practice. It hadn’t been a major issue since he could show up to class, do the different forms and defensive maneuvers, and pass the tests, but as he advances through the ranks, preparation becomes more and more important. I tried telling him that, but I might as well have been telling fish that water isn’t wet. Because it IS. Anyway, I kept talking, and my words kept falling onto deaf ears.

Our typical schedule was Tuesdays and Thursdays from 6p-7p, but the Thursday spot became problematic due to 10YO having tests on Fridays, and his severe allergy to studying. And removing an hour of study time was doing nothing to help his grades. After approaching the senseis, we discovered that there’s a Saturday morning class that he could attend at another facility instead of the Thursday class, and that suited me just fine because it meant I got to wake his butt up on a Saturday morning, and then deny him access to “iCarly” or “Phineas and Ferb” on TV in order to get him some physical exercise. So on that first Saturday morning, I got him up, fed him, wiped the crust from his eyes, and took him to get his TKD on. Then a funny thing happened.

When we got there, I explained who 10YO was and why we were there (they were ready for him), and I then prepared to go sit and watch as I usually did, typically with a book and my ipod. The black belt who told us what to do said to me “Why don’t you join in on the class today, Dad?” Stunned, I declined – I had my mouth all set on reading my book, and wasn’t expecting to be asked to play Kung Fu Fighting. But I started thinking…what could make 10YO work harder than me pushing him from behind, threatening to overtake him? That would sour his stomach in a heartbeat, given his competitive nature. Maybe it would even inspire him to work harder, to practice, to put more effort into it. Maybe if he saw Dad doing well at it (which was just an assumption at that point), he’d feel the heat and step up his game. Maybe I wouldn’t pass the hell out during warm ups. The plan was formulating. She asked again, pointing out that it was the beginning of the 6 week term, and that I’ve watched for a while and should be pretty familiar with the techniques and katas (forms). She was right. And because she was right, I started thinking some thoughts.

“Well, I do know the moves.”

“I am wearing proper attire.”

“I don’t have anything better to do right now.”

(and the coup de grace)

“I can totally do that.”

So I totally did that. I joined up. My son, the (then) orange belt, now had a white belt dad in class with him on Saturday mornings. And to my surprise, I really liked it. It helped that I had been doing Jillian Michaels at work almost every day (which, when I say it like THAT, makes it sound like I’ve been bending the celeb fitness guru over the copy machine, rather than following her workout regimen on DVD), but what also helped was the fact that I was willing to obey authority. In fact, I very much dig the authority there, the respect, the deference to greater experience, even if the person is younger than you by decades. It also helped 10YO, who took time to help correct my form, give advice, and basically guide me using his own experience. Mission: accomplished. Evidently I also showed proficiency, and 6 weeks later I became a yellow belt, and the week after that I won FIRST PLACE at a tournament! YES YOU HEARD ME CORRECTLY. First place. I have a trophy and everything.

No, I DIDN'T steal it from a 9 year old, thanks for asking.

Now that I’ma yellow belt, I’m learning all sorts of new things, like sparring. Sparring is when you fake-fight other people with all sort of pads and protective gear on. It’s also where you get kicked in the head and  stomach by a brown belt. But that’s a story for another time.

Peace.

Baby Got Back

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Smackable Offenses

You know, humanity as a whole is a fairly civilized group of primates. We generally coexist peacefully, we largely follow the same basic principles from group to group, and we invented bacon. We even have laws, edicts, guidelines, rules, handbooks, procedures, statutes, ordinances, and other methods for keeping the unruly in line with the rest of us who just want to get from point A to point B without some turniphead interrupting our flow. However, all these lines of text on paper don’t cover the full rainbow of transgressions that occur; they only hit the big stuff. There’s no real legal retaliation available for the minor things that affect us all. The police aren’t going to step in when people commit these small crimes against each other, and we the people aren’t permitted to exact the kind of revenge/justice these crimes warrant. But we should be allowed, shouldn’t we? I’m not talking about grievous bodily harm or death, just…appropriate ramifications. What I’m saying is, for some types of actions…

…some people just need to be smacked.

Now, by “smacked” I mean just that – smacked. Once, on the side of the head, preferably. The proper protocol for the punishment should be a smack on the head, an announcement of the offense, a curt nod and a rapid departure. So if you see a mom talking on her cell while her offspring is running amok through men’s wear and pulling all the IZOD pullovers off their 30% off hangers, you walk over to the mom, say “You are not watching your child, and he is running amok.”, then smack her in the head, give a short nod, and walk away. Mission complete.

Here’s my list of smackable offenses. Please add your own via comment, and when I have ‘em all, I’ll make this post a static page with everyone’s pet peeves listed. If I don’t, you can smack me.

Smackable Offenses

• Cutting people off in traffic when there’s no emergency
• Taking the last doughnut/pork chop/whatever when you’ve already had your fair share
• Overdramatized crying sequences on reality shows (like “The Biggest Loser”, for example)
• Condescending service people (plumbers, secretaries, DMV personnel) who treat you like you’re an idiot
• When I drop my son off at school in the morning, parents walk in the middle of the parking lot, taking their sweet time, and hold up traffic by a long ass while (from HDW)
• Talking on the cell phone in the bathroom stall and getting pissed when other people have to flush (from HDW)
• Cheering for the University of South Carolina
• Showing off pictures of your kids/cars/bowling pin collection when no one asked to see it
• Forcing your way onto the elevator before the other people can get off (from HDW)
• Yelling at your girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse in public
• Not paying attention to important information, then asking 39028345 questions about shit that was already covered
• Wearing bikinis when you’re clearly outside of the bikini-wearing demographic
• Complaining about problems, seeking advice for said problems, and then not listening or attempting to follow the aforementioned advice before complaining again
• Wearing Aéropostale
• Wearing plaid shorts when you’re over 35
• Assuming your experiences encompass all others’ experiences
• Cutting people off in conversation without listening to what they have to say
• Driving in the emergency lane on the highway when traffic’s at a standstill, and you’re not a cop/EMT/firefighter (from DWW)
• Texting/talking on the phone while out at dinner with someone (from DWW)
• Being late to meetings that YOU set up (from DWW)
• If you’re a meteorologist, cutting in on a popular TV show to show me how far the damn clouds have moved in the last 4 minutes (from DWW)
• Drying your hands on someone else’s face towel after using the bathroom (from HDW)
• Being mean to the elderly for no reason (that’s important – sometimes the elderly are jerks)
• Being shiftless, never keeping a job, never repaying debts, and never acknowledging other people’s kindness to you
• Burning popcorn at work, or cooking fish in the microwave at work
• Leaving the car on empty when others have to drive it later
• Being Coldplay

Let’s get it rolling, people. I know you’ve got some things that you wanna slap the taste out of somebody’s mouth for. List them! Power to the people!

Peace.

15 Minutes of Fame

(Editor’s note: I began writing this blog post the day after MJ’s death, but then I put it on hold for some reason. Even I don’t know why. So forget the fact that it was written for a particular time and date, and soak in the words. The words, people. Salud.)

Like many people, I was saddened by the news of Michael Jackson’s death on Thursday. Despite his increasingly bizarre behavior in his later years (not to mention the criminal allegations), he remained a very strong influence on the world, myself not excluded. I mean, the man ushered in the Age of Jheri Curl and zippered attire! He proclaimed himself as the King of Pop – and no one argued with him, ’cause the shit was true as hell. Like Martin Lawrence once said, “Who else can say they’re jamming in Bucharest?” For a long while, he was the Pied Piper of popular culture, and the world followed his merry tunes like heat follows light.

Beyond his musical and overall entertainment impact, he had a social and cultural impact that transcended race, age, gender, nationality, religion, and every other social barrier that we humans work so hard to maintain. He broke those barriers down, routinely and effortlessly, and did it in such a way that we all were happy for the service. He made music three-dimensional; we didn’t just want to hear his songs, we wanted to experience them. We all wanted to do the moonwalk. We all wanted to do that sick gangster lean from the “Smooth Criminal” video. We all wanted to spin around and turn into a pillar of sand like in “Remember The Time”. And we all did the bad-ass zombie dance from “Thriller”. Yes, even you did it. Don’t lie. We did not, however, want to grab our crotch 3087948903 times and turn into a panther (“Black Or White”). That was probably a stretch. Think of it like this: he was so huge, Weird Al Yankovic had TWO absolutely enormous hits by mocking MJ’s songs, thus establishing that even the by-products of his success could become successful in their own right (see Jackson, LaToya; Jackson, Janet; Jackson, Jermaine; Jackson, Randy; Jackson, Tito. Okay, scratch Tito.) A complete cottage industry evolved around people mimicking his dance moves and looks, and some folks (Alfonso Ribiera and Chris Tucker spring to mind) became known, in part, due to their ability to move like him. People wanted to dress like him. How many people did you know with red leather jackets covered in zippers, or with a single white glove covered in sequins (or Elmer’s Glue and glitter, if you grew up on the poor side of the tracks)? He was what so many entertainers yearn to be: he was ubiquitous. Look it up.

Yes, he was strange in his adulthood. But since age 4, he was in the burning spotlight, and you have to surmise that it affects the way he grew up, much like it affects nearly every other child star who is raised under its penetrating glare. How could a kid worth millions (by his own talents) be anything but abnormal, particularly considering his family situation?

And as I sit here at the airport, something occurred to me: as bad as the tragedy is for him, his family, his friends, associates, business partners, pets, and fans, there’s one person in particular who is by far the most directly affected by Michael’s death:

Farrah Fawcett.

Now, before you get into an uproar, please note that while I am indeed about to make a joke about the deaths of two very famous and influential people (I defy you to say that Farrah wasn’t influential to every horny teenage boy who had her posters on his wall. If you don’t believe me, I guarantee a blacklight would definitely show off all her “influence”), I plan to be as tasteful as possible so as to only offend 50% of the audience, rather than the projected 84%. I’m nice like that.

Farrah suffered. She suffered from anal cancer, which pretty much sounds like the worst cancer you get besides Random Penile Explosive cancer. She dealt with her condition with dignity and pride, even after losing the hair that in part made her so renowned.

Yeah, this hair. The HAIR, pervs.

“Farrah’s Story”, the documentary covering her 3 year battle with cancer, got 9 million viewers and earned her an Emmy nomination. When she finally passed on June 25th at 9:30 am, she had become the celebrity equivalent of a saint, canonized by popular culture in death to an even greater degree than she had been in life, quite possibly. From media darling, to star, to icon, to victim, and back to media darling again, Farrah had come full circle. The peaceful bliss of death propelled her across the skies of our mind like a shooting star, and the whole country paid attention and homage.

And that lasted approximately 3 whole hours.

Once word hit the street that Micheal Jackson had died at 12:20 pm that very same day, Farrah got bumped from Page 1 to Page 3, below the fold, just beneath whatever the hell Lindsay Lohan had done the night before. She was utterly marginalized – hell, she couldn’t even GET space in the margins after the King of Pop winked out of existence. I’m betting that she was even overshadowed in the waiting line for Heaven.

Farrah: “Wow, I’m finally here…it’s even more beautiful than I could’ve ever imagined!”

St. Peter: “Welcome, Farrah. Please step this way, into our VIP area….wait, what’s that over there?”

Farrah (looking around): “Um, I’m not really -”

St. Peter: “Holy crap, is that Micheal Jackson? ‘Scuse me, Ferret…”

Farrah: “Seriously?! It’s FARRAH! Farrah Fawcett!”

St. Peter (moonwalking away): “Yeah Farley, I heard you. Be a dear and grab that Welcome Kit and Executive VIP packet for the King of Pop, please and thank you.”

I bet she still has a sternum bruise from where MJ elbowed past her to get in, grabbing his crotch, singing “Leave Me Alone” and looking for Bubbles the chimp.

"Let me just eeeeeeeease by you, Farrah...sha moan..."

Rest in peace, both of you.

Double Digits

“My dear child. You are the poem I dreamed of writing, the masterpiece I longed to paint. You are the shining star I reached for In my ever hopeful quest for life fulfilled. You are my child. Now with all things I am blessed.”

Happy  birthday, 9YO 10YO.

Peace.