Don’t Try this at Home, Kids: We’re Trained Idiots!

The last Friday in August was a typical, lazy summer day. A little sun, a little rain, a decent breeze, and relatively few mosquitoes, thanks to the recent drought which – contrary to the bullshit one hears on WSB – is anything but over. (Yes, we had a flood a few days ago, but lake levels are still below normal, and there's no reason to expect next year to be any different from the last three: late frosts, too much rain in spring, no rain during the summer, and yo-yo winters.)

In short, it provided an ideal atmosphere in which to sit back, crack open a few beers, and have an intellectual discussion with an old buddy. Said buddy and I discussed martial arts, "Jedi mind tricks," writing technique, philosophy in general (and Ayn Rand in particular), aesthetics in general (and Rand's "Romantic Realism" in particular), psychology (during which portion of the conversation, we concluded that humanity would have been better off had Nathaniel Branden and B.F. Skinner dueled to the death – with Browning M2 machineguns and remote-detonated fuel-air bombs), sex, death, politics, religion, economics, friendship and anything else that came to mind – except the fucking weather. However diverse the topics we discussed; the underlying thematic unity (or perhaps these seemingly discreet subjects' interconnectedness) evoked a sense of wonder within both of us – and we're cynical old fucks.

Our level of rapport was likewise amazing – "mirrored" posture and gestures quickly gave way to finishing each other's sentences, saying the same thing simultaneously, and correctly anticipating each other's associative trains of thought. We began chatting around noon, and before either of us knew it, the sun had set. By the time we took our leave of each other – and somewhat reluctantly, at that – night had fallen.

On the surface, none of this is surprising or even noteworthy. One might even expect something of the sort from two good friends with broadly similar experiences and broadly parallel lives. What I haven't mentioned, however, is the fact that we're both utter gobshites. Yes, Gentle Reader; in the demolition derby of life, we're the ones driving the little school bus with tinted windows.

Like those of a bitchy, perpetually PMS-ing, drama-queen girlfriend, honesty's demands are both incessant and severe. And like a pussy-whipped boyfriend, I've little choice but to knuckle under to them. Our primary reason for having a stimulating, halfway civilized conversation was pain, plain and simple.

As it happened, we were only behaving like civilized human beings because we were recuperating from bruises, abrasions and stupidity.

Engaging in randori without a mat is rather foolish, you see. Engaging in randori without a mat – on concrete – is extremely stupid. Engaging in randori on concrete, without a mat, and while drunk is downright moronic. Engaging in randori on concrete, without a mat, while drunk and over forty years of age is the mark of a drooling, "welcome-to-spaz-hall-and-let's-just-nickname-you-'Special-Ed'-while-we're-at-it" fuckwit.

Yeah, I know. Just get it out of your system, Gentle Reader.

On the count of three: One, two, three – TIMMY!

In the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, William Butler Yeats's motto was Demon est Deus Inversus. Arthur Machen's was Avallaunius. Aleister Crowley's was Perdurabo. Algernon Blackwood's was Umbram fugat Veritas. Were I inclined to play dress-up, chant in extinct languages and otherwise subscribe to such heathen horse-puckey, I suppose mine would be "How do I keep getting myself into this shit?"

I haven't the foggiest idea of how to say that in Latin, by the way – and my ma's missal was especially un-helpful in that respect-- but I'll bet it sounds pretty bitchin'. It's gotta sound more bitchin' than the telltale "pop" of a joint exceeding its natural range of motion, at any rate…

I'd say, "Funny how these things happen," but that would be utter bullshit. I should have known damned good and well that it would happen. It all began on a typical Thursday evening. After an especially horrid workday, I'd just polished off a hunk of very tasty broiled salmon (it wasn't quite as good as the sashimi-grade salmon Mags and I picked up at the Buford Highway Farmers' Market a week before -- but then again, what is?), a plate of acar ketimun made from homegrown vegetables; and a few small, store-bought, turd-like objects that tasted vaguely of potato. No sooner had I uncorked a mega-decibel rumbler that rattled the windows in their frames and sent the cat and dog scurrying for cover (in some countries, it's considered a compliment to the chef…) than someone knocked at the door. As it happened, it was my old buddy, John.

He, Mags and I adjourned to the sitting area at the head of the driveway, where we discussed the 'zine we intend to unleash on an unsuspecting world. Now all that thinking and jawing makes for thirsty work, so Johnny-O and I hopped into the car, drove a short distance up the main drag, and picked up a case of "beaner beer" (Corona). Margarita likes the stuff (although if memory serves me correctly, she's more partial to Dos Equis or Tecate), I love it almost as much as I do LaBatt's or Rolling Rock (I'm anything but a "beer snob"), and Johnny-O seems to enjoy it as well. The conversation and booze flowed with equal rapidity and smoothness, and a good time was had by all (as certain anal-retentive English teachers insisted I write -- instead of "everyone had a good time").

Around twilight, it began pissing down rain. The three of us grabbed our chairs, scurried into to garage like stewbums fleeing a rousted speakeasy, and continued the discussion. By nightfall, Johnny and I had gone from having a good time to having a great fucking time. We were enjoying ourselves so much ("Hey, dude. What's the first thing a woman should do upon checking out of a shelter for battered wives? The dishes -- if the bitch knows what's good for 'er. Git it?"), as a matter of fact; Mags finally got sick of us and went inside to watch a movie.

Now I don't know what, exactly, is wrong with me (except for the manic-depression, which has long been a bother). For the last two months, though, my resting testosterone level has been through the roof. Given the sheer volume of sprouts, tofu, miso/denjang, tempeh, etc., I consume, this really shouldn't be the case – but it is. For every hair that falls out of my scalp, ten more pop up on my torso. If I don't shave every fucking morning, I look like Rip Van Winkel. My weight has plunged like a stone, and I've become markedly more aggressive. I can't speak for Johnny's emotional state at the time, but the conversation eventually turned to "guy stuff," including hunting (we'll soon see how well Kimber compares to Parker-Hale when it comes to dropping hogs) and martial arts.

Eventually, one of us suggested "playing." I can't, for the life of me, remember which of us birthed this particular brainchild, but I know that neither of us was at all keen to abandon it on the steps of the nearest church. My next recollection is of being clinched. For some perverse reason, I've lately been hung up on avoiding arm-locks, and I thusly convinced myself that he was going for a "key lock." When we went to the ground, I had him in my guard, at which point the dirty, underhanded bastard apparently suspected me of trying for a triangle choke. (I was, in fact, trying for a triangle choke -- although I'd have gladly settled for juji gatame -- but shame on him for being so base and callow as to suspect a friend of such treachery.)

Going for the triangle necessitated "unlocking" my guard, so he simply went backwards and put me in an ankle-lock. This wouldn't be so bad, had I not won a few informal matches with that very technique. (My jujutsu sucks, but the ankle-lock, the "gooseneck" wristlock, the old-fashioned hip-throw, the armbar yclept juji gatame, and the "key lock" have proven very reliable in the past. So has hitting people with pipes, chains and radio aerials -- "the poor man's fencing foil" -- but that's beyond the scope of this discussion.) Besides, I was only tangling with an asshole buddy – not that coonass degenerate, Trahan…

Now if there's anything good to be said of me (and I am, admittedly, the kind of guy who scratches in public, mocks "artists" who've decided that their "vision" exempts them from working for a living; listens to Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, Merle Haggard, both Hanks, Chuck Berry, John Lee Hooker, Motorhead and the Sex Pistols, and enjoys making explosives/incendiaries), it's that I can get a woman off 2-7 times before succumbing to la petite mort , can drink most gents under the fucking table, can stomp the living shit out of a fair-sized chunk of the competition without breaking a sweat, and that I don't cheat on my taxes – for all that I oppose taxation on principle. (And I'm a modest bastard, too...)

I'm also gettin' pretty good at acupressure and composing run-on sentences. Unfortunately, I'm also stubborn, bull-headed, and gifted with a fairly high pain-threshold.

So here we are, rolling on the ground. He'd already put the lock on, so short of putting a bullet into him or getting in a lucky ball-shot (I'd never to either to a friend, for the record – and Johnny-O kept "the goodies" pretty well protected, anyway), I was shit out of luck. Now I was damned if I was going down without a fight (I suppose I figured that if I concentrated really hard, I could shoot laser beams outta my ass or something…), so I took my time tapping out.

Well, let me rephrase that. As John later reminded me, I didn't tap out. Next thing we knew, the stillness of the night was rent by a loud popping noise. It very nearly qualified as a "Roseanne Roseannadana moment": Did dat come outta you?

He released the lock immediately, and we took stock of the situation.

"Dude, I think I busted your knee."
"Nah, it's just sprained. I've had a busted knee before. They hurt a lot worse. I'm not screaming, crying or puking -- so it ain't busted."
"True, but you didn't scream, cry or puke when Aaron broke your rib."
"See what I mean? That hurt a lot worse than this, so I must be OK, right?"

(Now we both have more than our fair share of Irish ancestry, so that was a real "head scratcher" of a moment. There we stood, amidst the chirping of crickets and the hooting of night-birds; both of us bleary-eyed, bleeding and so full of beer; the odd, foolhardy mosquito that dared bite us immediately went into delirium tremens. Eventually, we arrived at a consensus of sorts.)

"Uh, that sounds almost logical. So what do you want to do now?"
"Well, since my leg's fucked up, I think we should practice arm-bars, wristlocks, and escaping from the mount. I really need some work on that one."
"Cool."

And we went right back to it… Now sprains and broken bones are nasty injuries. If one practices martial arts long enough, though, one will encounter them at one time or another -- end of story.
The next morning, we were really a sight. I was limping like Long John Silver, while he was sporting a few nasty patches of "road rash" -- hence the civilized discussion I mentioned in the first paragraph.  

Aside from the pain, the worst part of an injury of that sort is the lost training time. You spend 6-8 weeks sitting around with your thumb up your ass, vow never to behave that stupidly again – and then do it all over again six months to a year later. A few days later, we admitted that we'd behaved very stupidly. I don't compete formally, but John informed me that in the over-40 division, many of the moves we practiced aren't even legal. The damage, however, was already done. Live and learn…

There are, however, ways of "cheating" when it comes to recovering.

I understand that traditional Chinese medicine isn't widely accepted in this country. Hell, it isn't even widely accepted in China these days, but it works. Granted, I should have ceased "playing" immediately, then iced and elevated the leg. I did just that the next day, but it would have been better to have done it right away, to gain the maximum benefit from doing so. Instead, I did the next best thing – which would have been the best thing, had I done it in sequence: I applied a liberal dose of ten-year-old dit da jow I made when I fragged my right knee, years ago. I used it twice a day, every day, and the injury healed – in only three weeks.

Now there are many, many recipes for various forms of jow, each intended to remedy a certain ailment. Mine is essentially "general purpose," and contains Asian, European and Native American ingredients. The formula follows.

1 liter vodka or Chinese "fire wine."
1 bottle over-the-counter oil of wintergreen
½ cup witch hazel
1t Mentholatum ointment or a few drops essential oil of mint
2-5g each:
stick cinnamon
ginger root (chopped and crushed)
turmeric root (chopped and crushed)
whole cloves
garlic
yarrow stems and flowers
Chinese angelica root
European angelica root
licorice root
rehmannia glutinosa
rosemary
juniper berries
basil
tobacco
marjoram

Place all ingredients in a large glass jar. Pour over alcohol, cap, and shake to break up mentholatum. It will work after six weeks, but it's best when aged six months to a year. This particular formula is good for bruises, sprains, strains and muscle aches. My wife (who thought I was a little crazy when she discovered my "odd" interests) swears by it, and I have several friends who ask for the occasional batch.

Had I known what I know now at the time I made it, though, I'd have used the following recipe:

1 liter vodka or "fire wine"
5g each:
Turmeric root (chopped and crushed)
panax ginseng
Chinese Angelica root
rhubarb root
Inula root
Amomi fruit
safflower

From what I can tell, this is simply an external version of a traditional Chinese pill. The only thing missing is bear gall. Said pill, incidentally, works like a charm -- even on broken bones – as I know from personal experience.

I was toying with the idea of making the pills last year, but hunting bears in Georgia requires a special (and expensive) permit which is issued in very limited numbers. A friend of Mags' and mine (who's far more knowledgeable than I when it comes to Chinese medicine; and who provided me with the formula in the first place) told me that pig gall was sufficiently similar in its action and properties to serve as a substitute. There's certainly no shortage of wild hogs in Georgia, but the traditional method of preparing the gallbladder has me worried about contracting trichinosis.

Materia Medica mentions that cow gall is used as a substitute nowadays, but if I'm not mistaken, beef and pork have slightly different properties. If I can figure out a safe way to process the pig gall, I'll whip up a batch and post the results.

G'night and God bless.

Comments

[John]

So what do you tell a woman with two black eyes?

Nothing she's already been told twice.

Degenerate bastards we are. :D

[Sean]

Wow, stop checking in for a few weeks and the blog is resurrected! Good to see you writing again.

Been busy here, between work and the house and marrying off my youngest brother. I've quite given up the notion of picking a mere 4 or 8 or 12 gigs of music to put on discs to send you; instead, I'm digging up an external hard drive to load up and mail. Hopefully I'll manage to get it done in the next week or two.

[Dave]

"O! Frabjous day!/
Calloo! Callay!/
He chortled in his-- (Uh, stupor?)"

Dia dhuit, Bucko.

Thought I'd lost track of you, what with the floods, asteroid impacts and other disasters (some natural, others anything BUT...) occurring in the locality. I was writing you a rather long (Read "*Tain Bo Cualigne*-long") let's-play-catch-up letter, when the Norns decided to play tandem-snooker with my clackers.

Sorry for missing your birthday and Jon's, but the universe has been unpleasantely unco-operative of late. Ever the conscientious and considerate bastard (I'm told it's a virgo trait...),I'd meant to send both of you brand-new, pre-wound alarm clocks; but I was bailing water outta my cellar (Mags and I toted fifteen nine-gallon loads each into the back forty for disposal) on my own *Geburtstag*; and likewise engaged on Monday.

At any rate, I'm still here.

Feel free to call or write at any time; and I'm damned pleased to hear from you again.

[Aaron]

I didn't mean to do that...love