Green Hell

Observations and Training Notes 2

 

Pumping Iron and Other Forms of Self-Mortification

     The beginning of another week. On the training front, I've decided to throw myself a "curve ball" ever y week. I'm sticking with the M-W-F split, but I've opted to scramble the sets to keep things interesting. The "spinning" program worked insofar as melting off the extra pounds was concerned (having nearly reached my target weight, I'll be working for cuts and muscle mass now), but left something to be desired as part of a circuit routine. For starters, I was too out of shape to make it through more than one cycle, and was suffering overall exhaustion before working certain muscle groups to my satisfaction. Modification is in order before I return to it.

     A bit of searching brought an "over 40 break in" routine to light, so I gave it a shot. Here's the kinky part: I'm actually too strong for the recommended sets and weights. I'll increase the weights, add another set of each exercise, and see what happens. Cardio fitness is improving (resting heart rate is already down by 1-2 BPM, although the reduced nicotine intake probably has as much to do with it as exercise), but I admit to having overdone it last week. I'm really sold on skipping rope, incidentally. For whatever reason, it seems to build endurance far more quickly than running. It's also easier on my knees and heels. At the risk of sounding hackneyed: If I'd thought I was gonna live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself.

     Interesting observation #1: My curls, presses, etc. haven't suffered much. This stands to reason, as moderate to heavy lifting is part of my job. My first encounter with the chinning bar, though, was another story. "Back in the day," I could bang 'em out like nobody's business. Yesterday, however, I barely made it through two. This won't do at all.

     I'm also happy with the gains in flexibility. Nothing to write home about, I suppose; but I can hold the stretches a little longer each day without experiencing undue discomfort.  Moreover, I've gone from the so-called "Burmese" position to quarter-lotus, to half-lotus in nine days. Owing to a slight deformity (never mind what) and certain injuries I suffered during my youth, I don't know if I'll ever manage the full lotus position, but it’s worth a try. 

     Interesting observation #2: Although I'm well past my physical prime, certain of the exercises are easier to perform. Despite predictable losses in strength and flexibility, I've found that I'm less tense in some respects. My willpower has also increased, which is to say that I'm less inclined to let frustration get the better of me. Best of all, I'm less distraction-prone: my focus has improved markedly.

     One "area of opportunity" (corporate Newspeak for "weakness") I've noticed is very disturbing: loss of haragei. Somehow, my center of gravity has risen over the years. A matter of lapsing into bad habits, I reckon.  Focusing attention on the lower tan tien during zazen was a nightmare. Spent the better part of a session trying to reestablish contact with it. Counterproductive in two ways: 1.) I became distressed at first; 2.) I felt entirely too much relief upon succeeding. Both distractions interfered with my counting. The bright side: I realized (and I mean "realized" in the true sense of the word) that becoming angry with myself was pointless and self-defeating. Frustration is wasted -- effort is not.  Perhaps it's age, but the jump from anger to determination was much easier than I remember it being. And the determination itself was of a different order than that to which I'm accustomed. In this case, it was less like psyching up for a match than making sane, sensible preparations for a long weekend of roughing it in the bush. Rather than William Wallace (one of my few heroes, for the record), who wasted his post-Stirling momentum on attempted sieges -- for which he was woefully unprepared -- in northern England, and who eventually met with disaster at Falkirk; I was reminded of the (possibly apocryphal) story of Bruce and the spider.

     Side effects: I've been calmer and less prone to frittering, i.e., wasting time on essentially non-productive activity for the sake of "doing something" or merely entertaining myself. I'd actually forgotten what the state was like, however embarrassing the admission. I hadn't lost my appreciation for silence and solitude (thank God!), but I confess that the luster of both had dulled somewhat. The pets appreciate the change in temperament -- the cat in particular. Contrariwise, the womenfolk do not. I now suspect that drama is an inherent female need. I further suspect that compulsive worriers need others to worry, as well. This is odd, as the typical "worry wart" -- while constantly at war with bugaboos and bogeymen -- is oblivious to real danger. This is to say that given the choice between repairing a dented fender or failing brakes, the worry wart invariably chooses the former.
     I don't mean to criticize the breed too harshly, for the record. Like all human beings, I have irrational fears of my own.  Although I live in Georgia -- nearly 200 miles from the nearest coast, and fully 1,200 miles from the Rocky Mountains -- I'm terrified of sharks and grizzly bears. Never mind that I've only seen them up-close in zoos and aquaria. And don't even get me started on lions (an endangered species some 3,000+ miles away) -- I'd come across as a complete mentaller.
    Having said that, I'll add that worry-warts seem to focus on trivia in order to avoid acknowledging genuine threats to their security. I suppose this also explains their marked preference for form over substance.
    This calls for greater forbearance on my part.

Worthwhile Social Networking

     Have a look at Good Reads. It's an excellent place to meet people who share one's literary tastes, and to get the poop on any given book.

Simple Pleasures

     Our friend Richard paid us a visit two weeks ago. As we live over a thousand miles apart, we only see each other when he makes cross-country runs. As truckers run on tight schedules, the visits also tend to be short. ("Nice havin' lunch with you, but I gotta be in Jacksonville by six…"). This time, however,  Dame Fortune spread 'em wider than the South Pacific, and damn-near glued her ankles to her ears in the process. Rich's next appointment with the "endless, black ribbon" was nearly a day away. This afforded us a measure of free time. After explaining a few embarrassing, circumstantial peculiarities (with the frankness one can only employ with a true friend --"What, exactly, do you know about OCD?"), Mags and I did our level best to demonstrate genuine, Southern hospitality.
     Parking a fully loaded eighteen-wheeler in my subdivision (while not completely out of the question; the neighbors are wonderful) presented a few difficulties. But where to leave it? This is metro Atlanta, after all. The economy is in ruins. Crime is on the rise, as desperate times favor -- and foster -- desperate men. Consequently, big rigs and their cargoes are increasingly tempting targets for skels. Needless to say, this wouldn't do at all.
    Enter the company. My loathing for corporate pseudo-"culture" notwithstanding (and undiminished, for the record) I must concede the existence of an "old school" element within management -- even in this veritable kali yuga. This element consists of men and women who understand the incentive-based nature of genuine free enterprise. On the pragmatic side, they're sufficiently astute to have noticed that honey attracts more flies than does vinegar. And God bless 'em, every one.
    The Cliff's Notes version: The Big Boss lent us a spot on the safest, most thoroughly monitored parking lot in Fulton County. Kudos to him, and to the company. Although I loathe the "snitch culture," installing surveillance cameras for the protection of employees, vendors and customers is commendable -- especially when it works. Now if only they'd devote as much energy to quashing the behemoths of casual shoplifting and phony "returns" as they do to chanting silly incantations against the gremlins of largely imaginary "employee theft"….
     The rig thusly secured, we adjourned to Maison Ridgerunner -- kinda.
     Now this is Georgia. The Deep South. The state in which the Coastal Plain, the Piedmont, and the Appalachians flow and swirl into a less-than-harmonious whole. Like those of most Southern states, Georgia's economy was agricultural from its founding until the early twentieth century. Before the War Between the States, the South's most important cash crops were cotton, indigo, rice (in Louisiana and South Carolina), and -- yep. Tobacco.
     Richard rolls his own cigarettes. He also has a particular brand of tobacco he favors -- and it ain't Bugler or the other "service station special" brands. For several reasons, I haven't rolled my own in ages. As I never got the hang of it, they always looked like joints. This, as you might well imagine, caused me the odd bit of grief from time to time. This being the case, I never became a "tobacco snob." I do, however, splurge once in a blue moon, treating myself to a pack of Silk Cut, Gauloises, or Shivsagar Bidis.
     Needless to say, this necessitates visiting a tobacconist. As I knew of several, I never thought obtaining Richard's brand would be a problem. What I didn't know was that all of them had gone out of business, whether because of the current depression or for other reasons. To make a long story short, we spent two hours cruising around in the infernal Georgia heat trying to find one. Every lead we obtained fizzled, and finally, in desperation, we stopped by a well-stocked liquor store, only to be disappointed once again. Luckily, the proprietor knew of a tobacconist half a mile or so away. When we pulled into the parking lot, it appeared that the Norns had been kind to us. Upon entering the shop, though, we found that it specialized in cigars and pipe tobaccos. As we really had no choice, we settled on an ounce of a mix Rich found agreeable.
     As we left the store, I thought of a few earlier cases of "mistaken identity," if you will. Turning to Rich, I said "Could you keep that out of sight? Call it force of habit, but I'm still kinda nervous about walkin' around with an ounce of anything in a Ziploc bag…"

     Back at the house, we indulged in the three "B's": burgers, barbecue and beer. (Well, to be honest, I had a few sips of a fourth "B" -- some top-shelf bourbon. As, however, I'm absolutely forbidden to touch whiskey -- I tend to get into pissing contests when I partake thereof -- I probably shouldn’t mention it…). When the meal ended, we sat back for a smoke. At this point, it occurred to me that we had an ounce of very good pipe tobacco -- but no pipes. Being the redneck I am, I solved the problem within minutes.
     After giving Rich's knife a quick sharpening, I rustled up a dried corncob while Rich cut us two ash shoots from the tree on the property line. Normally, we'd have had heat a length of wire and burn the pith from the shoots. Luckily, they were already dead, and fairly well seasoned. The only problem was blowing out the ants that had colonized them. While Rich whittled the shoots into proper pipe stems, I chopped the cobs into 2" (give or take a finger's breadth) lengths and hollowed them out with a 5/8" spade bit.  After eyeballing the finished stems, I drilled perpendicular, connecting holes with a 3/8" bit, and voila! Instant bowls. The stems fit perfectly, and the pipes (as you can see in the photos below) were quite serviceable.

Observations and Training Notes

     Finally; a chance to write. At times, it’s difficult to believe that the year’s more than half over. I’d ask myself where the time’s gone, but as I know the answer, doing so would be pointless – and rather cliché, come to think of it.

     No politics or predictions today, so if you came hoping for either, you’ll be disappointed. I’m sick to death of politics, economics, and – believe it or not – sick of being right. Besides, “there ain’t no point in talkin’ when there’s nobody listenin’,” as Rod Stewart sang.

Entertainment Nation

    Speaking of music: I’ve recently become a “Turntable widower.” For the benefit of the unenlightened, I’ll mention that “Turntable” is the latest cause of low workplace productivity. In essence, it’s a glorified chatroom, with an additional enticement -- music. Moreover, the participants take turns DJ-ing – only less violently than Wilkinson and I do at our parties. This is to say that no one finds himself on the receiving end of kata guruma or a similarly nasty throw for refusing to play Twisted Sister when another pushy, equally intoxicated lout demands it. Difficult to fathom the attraction, isn’t it? At any rate, Mags is quite taken with it, and can’t pull herself away from the computer. This is why I’ve come to refer to myself as a “Turntable widower,” the male equivalent of an “Officers’ Club widow.”
      And Margarita’s newfound addiction -- naturally -- just had to surface in time for our third anniversary. Yep. It’s been three years since we “jumped da broom” at the 2008 Animal List BBQ. (My friend, fight choreographer “Mama Duck” Johnson, wanted us to jump one literally, by the way – until I told him I’d be wearing a kilt. That must have been one hell of a visual, as it was the first time I’ve ever seen a Black man turn green…)

     Now this domestic bliss bit is wonderful, for the record. Don’t look at me that way! I mean it sincerely. We have nearly identical values (“Turntable” excepted), similar interests (ditto), the same religious convictions, and compatible political/philosophical outlooks. Unfortunately, marriage is a bit distracting. Although I can’t blame everything on being married, it’s far more energy- and time consuming than I once (naively) imagined. (Let a word to the wise be sufficient: Do not put off matrimony until the age of forty. The habits one acquires during four decades of bachelorhood are damnably difficult to replace. Example: being a typical, Scots-Irish ridgerunner – and a forty-year bachelor, to boot – I still haven’t broken the habit of ogling attractive women. Consequently, I’ve developed a new one: that of keeping both hands in a perpetual, low “x” block position; the better to fend off unexpected ball-shots from my insanely jealous spouse.) This, needles to say, necessitates maintaining a Samurai-like state of zanshin ‘round the clock; which, in turn, requires constant effort. This brings us right back to women.

     Unlike, say, dogs; women demand attention. This is to say that they aren’t content to curl up under one’s desk, go to sleep (and lay off a battery of those stomach-churningly mephitic dog-farts) when one sits down to write. Truth be told, they’re more like cats: they can’t resist swatting at the mouse cable, strolling across the keyboard, clawing the chair in which one’s arse is comfortably parked (my cat actually considers “plumber’s butt” fair game… and I usually sit in a deck chair), and otherwise making nuisances of themselves. Hmm… Perhaps “Turntable” isn’t such a bad thing after all…

Pumping Iron

 

     Having noted that the institution of marriage (a.k.a. “the peculiar institution”) consumes a metric shitload of attention, energy and effort; I’ll note that something else must, of necessity, suffer neglect. In my case, working out has been rudely pushed into the shadows. At 170 as of last Sunday, I was five pounds over my “ideal” bodyweight. As for my BMI – forget it. I’m too cowardly to have it measured. Not that I need to: I have a very good idea of where it is. I still have a 32” waist, but the country to its immediate north is showing aggressive, expansionist tendencies. This being the case, I decided to launch a pre-emptive counterstrike last Monday. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t worked out seriously or regularly in over two years. It further occurred to me that in the same stretch of time, I hadn’t passed up a single opportunity to “smoke a couple o’ brews,” in the words of my eleventh-grade English teacher.

     “OK,” says I, “this has gotta change – startin’ right now.” I dashed up two flights of stairs, slipped into my kickboxin’ duds – and nearly went into cardiac arrest. “Note to self:” scribbles I on my legal pad, “Cardio is top priority.”                    
     Appropriately attired, I then hied me to the basement in order to locate my gear. After half an hour of rooting through heaps of books, manuscripts, tools, gun parts, miscellaneous weapons, empty beer cans, etc.; I found my bean bag (hand conditioning, dontchaknow?), jump rope, a lightly loaded 6’ Bollinger “Star-Lock” barbell, a couple o’ dumbbells (both still comatose from Saturday night’s party), my chest expander (which I’d long since adapted to the ignoble purpose of launching moldy pummelos and rotten durians at the f**king “wigger” teenagers who insist upon listening to rap at maximum volume in the middle of the night – my favorite time for playing Irish drinking songs at maximum volume), and a pair of nunchaku I’d given to Maggie in lieu of an engagement ring.
    After sustaining a concussion, a shattered kneecap, and trauma-induced orchitis, I decided that playing with the “chucks” could wait.  “Note to self:” scribbles I on my trusty legal pad, “Wear cup and ‘dojo ballerina’ headgear in foreseeable future.”

 

    All kidding aside, I was in a quandary. A “powderpuff” workout was out of the question; but at forty-three years of age, I thought it foolish to plunge headlong into the voluntary, daily hell to which I subjected myself during my late twenties and early thirties. I needed to raise my heartbeat for 30+ minutes (a risky proposition, as my resting rate is 10 BPM out of the “safe” zone), shock my muscles into anabolism/hypertrophy, and offset the stiffness that comes with age. Luckily, the weather was on my side: It being mid-July (and in Georgia, no less), the heat index was just shy of volcanic. I broke a profuse sweat within three minutes of undertaking a series of warm-up exercises derived from Indian wrestling. Had my next-door neighbors (devoutly Southern Baptist, and in their late sixties and early seventies, respectively) not been at home, I’d have honored my Pictish ancestors by shucking off the “wife beater” tank top and boxing trunks, and p’raps even asked my miraculously unbeaten (three years with her could transform Gandhi into Andrew “Dice” Clay) spouse to wean herself from the computer long enough to rub me down with mustard oil -- but ours is not a perfect world.

    This being the (admittedly regrettable) case, I leafed through a few dry-rotting macho rags I purchased between ’87 and ’94, and settled upon a quaint and curious method yclept “spinning.” And yes, I was stalling like an Anglican at the doorstep of a brothel. As the clock ticked away, I cursed myself for a coward and headed for the garage.

     Finally, I took the plunge. Not wanting to kill myself outright, I chose to split the workout: calisthenics and “woo-woo” stuff every day except Sunday, weights Monday, Wednesday and Friday. To get in the cardio, I opted to circuit train: jump rope one minute, perform a set with the weights, then back to the rope. Now “spinning” is an unusual method, but it’s worked for me in the past. In a nutshell, one combines very light weights with very high reps (one set of each exercise, performed quickly and rhythmically – observing strict form -- to momentary muscle failure; 25 reps minimum.
    It may not look like much, but with no rest between skipping rope and lifting, one reaches failure very quickly. I barely made it through the workout, and was actually looking forward to the 45-minute yoga session that followed.
     By the second weight session (Wednesday), I modified the program so as to work the largest muscles first:  rope/squats, /rope/pushups, /rope/bent row, rope/rear press, rope/curl, rope/triceps press, rope/calf raise, rope/wrist curl. This seems to work best, in that I don’t wear out before working the larger muscle groups.

Mental Gymnastics

    But man does not live by “feeling the burn” alone. Yoga is undeniably physical, but performing even the simplest of poses correctly (rather than merely going through the motions) is challenging on multiple levels. The combination of learning to assume a pose correctly, holding it comfortably, moving into and out of it smoothly, breathing properly, and understanding its effect on the appropriate chakra (I now understand why many practitioners of “Pop Yoga” are nuttier than Snickers bars) elevates it far above calisthenics. In this respect, it has much more in common with meditation, kata, or the internal martial arts styles. Suffice to say that I respect “the real McCoy” far more than I did during my youth.

 
     I’ve also taken up zazen again, and am pleased with the results. Between ’94 and ’01, I practiced twice a day, 15-45 minutes per session as time allowed. Not being a Buddhist, I am, of necessity, confined to the bompu or gedo level of practice; but that suits me fine. Four days without an episode of any sort is a rare blessing, although admittedly a mixed one.
     Unlike riding a bicycle, resuming zazen after several years off is anything but easy. Expecting as much, I began at the most basic level, breath counting: inhale, count one; exhale, count two; and so on, up to 10. Then continue the cycle until the lack of circulation in the calves and feet necessitates standing J. To reiterate, this is the “kindergarten” version. As the Zen master Yasutani said: “Counting the breath and following it are expedient devices. A person who can’t walk well requires support and all these other methods are just supports. But eventually you must dispense with them and just walk.” Although I learned to “walk” some time ago, I liken my condition to that of an accident victim, and my efforts to rehabilitative therapy.

     I experienced little distress over “failing” and little pride over “succeeding,” but resumption was still challenging. Even at so elementary a stage, the number of distractions (both internal and external) is mind-boggling. Here’s an example: although worn with age and slightly damaged during the flood of ’09, my parents’ Chinese, Indian, and Persian rugs are still reasonably attractive. As it happens, both of the rooms most conducive to zazen are carpeted with them. Now in zazen, the eyes are kept open, but slightly downcast. Owing to the design of Oriental carpets, the central motifs serve as passable mandala. As, however, the point of this exercise is counting the breath… See the problem? After my first session, I found that I had to position myself a yard or so from a featureless wall. Ah, but the “chattering monkey” is devious and resourceful. Blindfold him, and he’ll screech: I had to turn the fan up full blast in order to drown out random sounds (the radio downstairs, the kids across the street, etc). Muffle his ears, and he’ll pinch and claw: four sessions, and I’ve already experienced my first makyo, in the form of vibrations in my chest. Although it occurred much earlier in the process this time, I was able to bear it with good humor.    

     Much easier (and surprisingly rewarding) is a less strenuous form of practice: focusing on mundane tasks at hand – to the exclusion of everything else. When I say “exclusion,” I don’t mean in the sense of ignoring external phenomena. It’s more a process of noticing, noticing that you’ve noticed, and then getting back to business. However counterintuitive the assertion, the practice actually contributes to a heightened state of awareness. The mind, resorting to increasingly sophisticated trickery to avoid the discipline of one-point concentration, attunes itself to ever-subtler impressions. Attempted bribery, as I suppose. In martial arts terms, this state is easily mistaken for zanshin or mushin. It is however, a counterfeit version, as anyone who’s glimpsed even a flicker of the real thing can attest. The difference, while extraordinarily difficult to verbalize, is unmistakable. In daily life, though, even this underhanded sabotage can be put to good use.

 

     Noticing external sensory data is fine. Becoming distracted by them is another matter. In the practical sense, “exclusion” is a matter of establishing a proper context, and not attaching undue importance to incidental phenomena.

 

     The immediate effects have been beneficial: no episodes, greater patience (never my strong suit), a sense of equanimity, and improved concentration. I’m sleeping better: out like a light on “heavy” days; but on “light” days I need fewer hours in order to feel rested. Although I need fewer hours (2-5 hours a night) during manic or mixed cycles, there’s an important difference: the latter two cases are symptomatic of an inability to rest. I’m also smoking less.

     On the downside, I’ve noticed a slight loss of artistic creativity. Hopefully, it’s a temporary condition.

The Staff of Life

    I despise fad diets. So much for equanimity. Sadly, most of the dietary advice I’ve read has been faddish in the extreme. Back in 2006 (and for all the wrong reasons), I lost thirty pounds of flab and water weight through a sensible (as it seemed at the time) program of diet, exercise and supplements. I’m sure the manic and mixed episodes (loss of appetite, insomnia, etc.,) helped, but I’m equally sure that many of the supplements were organ-wreckers. My exact regimen is somewhere in the archives. Ergo, there’s no sense in rehashing it. It was essentially low-carb, and that’s all I’ll say. It worked, but at a cost. This time, I’ve decided to plunge over the jagged cliff of pseudo-science, into the maelstrom of psychology.

     As I’ve often mentioned on this blog, I have the utmost respect for NLP as developed by Bandler and Grinder. My religious convictions notwithstanding, I have to admit that Zen and NLP (Zen-LP, as I dubbed the combination) helped unify the dangling threads of my sanity during the darkest, ugliest period of my life. Between the two influences, though, I became a near-perfect psychopath -- quite by accident. Luckily, both systems allow for a tremendous degree of self-correction when taken in their entirety. Had I stumbled upon either method piecemeal; I’d never have realized that I was abusing both behavioral technologies. “Study deeply upon this,” as Musashi wrote.

     When Steve and Connirae Andreas trotted their horse to the gate, I was a tad suspicious. Reading Change Your Mind – and Keep the Change allayed those suspicions. The Andreases logically and seamlessly picked up where Bandler had left off in Using Your Brain for a Change. Several years after reading it, I spotted a copy of Heart of the Mind in a local bookstore. I purchased it on the spot, and tucked into it immediately. At the time, I didn’t need to diet, overcome any phobias, learn to spell, etc. Ergo I ignored several chapters of the book and reverse-engineered as much of the rest as I could for offensive use. When I began this program, though, I remembered that book contained a chapter of dieting, “The Naturally Slender Eating Strategy.” Upon reading, I realized that the way I thought about eating had changed. To make a long story short, I put the method into practice and combined it with an eating strategy I’d learned duing my tofu-eatin’ Buddhist hippie days: Stop eating when 50-80% full. The end result: I’d lost four pounds by Friday.

     More later. G’night and God bless.

A Classic Unearthed

This masterpiece is as old as I am -- perhaps a little older. Much of the specific content is dated, but in the deeper sense, it's anything but a period-piece. Style and methodology aside, it ranks alongside Hunter S. Thompson's Hell's Angels or Stanton Samenow's Inside the Criminal Mind as a nuts-and-bolts field guide to certain aberrant personality-types.

As the Chinese saying goes: "Times change -- men do not."

Like Thompson, Saxon is a non-academic. As such, his fieldwork is refreshingly free of the intellectual constraints imposed by the Boas/Mead "Axis of Fantasy and Equivalency." This distinct advantage lent him unusual clarity insofar as observing and evaluating borderline-dysfunctional cultures, subcultures, and personality-types was concerned.

This is to say: "Yeah, I like the book."

Without further ado, then: Kurt Saxon's Wheels of Rage.

By the Time I Get to Phoenix (Rant)

Well, I’d halfway convinced myself that I wasn’t going to do this sort of thing anymore. But this time, I can’t resist. Yes, recidivism rears its ugly head again. I’m falling back into a nasty old habit, and doing so with a vengeance. The habit? Attacking news items and picking them apart; taking huge, bloody bites; and noisily smacking my lips as I sample each tasty, dripping gobbet of inanity.

“What, what, Bean,” sobs the Gentle Reader, “has brought you to this lowly state?”

This-here friggin’ article, that’s what!

I was browsing around online, having a look-see at the news, when I came across AP reporter Chris Kahn’s story concerning the “dynamic duo” of serial killers presently active in Phoenix, Arizona: “Phoenix Residents Help in Hunt for Killlers” on ABC.

Now I realize that the typical American ain’t “all broke out with brilliance,” but some of what I read was just too much to take without reaching for the Maalox. I know that while ignorance is deliberate, stupidity is probably genetic, but is there really any need to abuse the privilege to this extent? Read this Brainiac's "thoughts," for example.

“With two serial killers on the loose in Phoenix, Marnie Reiher knows she should stay off her front porch. She shouldn't answer the door. And if the cats sneak out at night, she should leave them on their own till morning.
"But then I'd be giving in," said Reiher, 36, who refuses to hunker down even though she lives a few blocks from where one of the killers struck. ‘I'd be imprisoning myself.’”

Giving in? To what? Are the killers making demands? Has either released a manifesto of sorts, declaring his intentions in detail? Once again, to what does this genius believe she’s “giving in”? From my point of view, courting destruction is an act of “giving in,” as the guy seems to enjoy whacking people. If he desires and intends to kill people, then providing him with an easy target is the real act of “giving in”. Did this lady think before unlocking her jaws, or was she just reflexively spewing quasi-feminist “empowerment” cant?

As for the second statement, how does exercising reasonable caution in the face of a potential threat, or employing simple preventive measures constitute “imprisoning” oneself? I’d love to hear this one.

“At community meetings, women remind each other of the safety advice they heard while growing up: Squeeze a car key between your fingers and you have a knife. Wear your purse in the front so someone can't strangle you with the strap. Keep your head up. Make eye contact. Kick him in the groin.”

Oh, God! How do I love this foolishness? Let me count the ways! Yes, the old “car-key-between-the-fingers” bit can make someone’s evening less pleasant, but it’s hardly the equivalent of having a knife. If you doubt this, here’s an experiment to try at home. The next time you cook a ham for dinner, take a few swats at it with even the tiniest of knives, something like the Gerber Jr., for example. Then do the same with your car keys. Or better yet, try dressing a deer with your car keys. There’s simply no comparison. Do people really believe that this crap constitutes serious self-defense, or is this just the verbal equivalent of “comfort food”?

Now what’s the purse bit? These guys are dropping the hammer on people, no? I can’t imagine either of them saying to himself: “Gee, this whole gun thing’s getting old. I think I’ll strangle some broad with her purse straps.”

Then there’s the matter of eye contact. I hate to piss on anyone’s parade, but in certain cultures and to a certain type of individual, eye contact constitutes a challenge. Is a challenge appropriate in this case? Aaaagh! I understand that to some people, these little gems of “wisdom” are reassuring, but does reassurance trump reality?

Let me add one final item before moving on: Every damned one of us who’s spent any time on the shadier side of life expects “citizens” to kick him in the groin or the kneecaps.

Why, over the entire course of the article, has there been no mention, and I do mean NO mention of avoidance, noting these guys’ patterns, or paying attention to one's surroundings? I understand that the Guardian Angels are doing Brownshirt duty and all that, but at this time, avoidance and awareness are the responsibilities of every resident of the “danger zone.” There are over a million people in that city, So the cops, the Guardian Angels and even neighborhood watch groups can only do so much.

“The Baseline Killer tends to strike in the late afternoon and evening, while the Serial Shooter usually opens fire during the overnight hours.”

The sentence above provides quite a bit to go on. Tells me when to stay home or to exercise additional caution, for example. If everyone took this into account, the shooters would have to change their patterns and leave their “comfort zones.” This might-- just might -- lead one or both of them to slip up as they adjust to the new circumstances.

“Even the best self-defense tips would be worthless against someone randomly shooting from a car, like the Serial Shooter. But if the attacker gets close enough to rape, he is close enough for a good tough kick to the middle.”

Would paying attention be worthless? Would staying off the streets during “peak hours”? I’ll also add that I don’t think anyone wants to -- or should -- rape the attacker, no matter how close he is. Do that, and you’ve crossed the line between self-defense and revenge. Besides, he might have a disease. (Sorry. That was bad.) As for the last part? Yeah, just give him a leg to grab. Good thinking.

“Wall teaches his students to drop to their backs and kick at the attacker with their feet.”

Oh, jeez! Yeah, drop to one's back when confronted with a guy who’s known to shoot people. Remember the gun part? Provide a stationary target, why dontcha? Great idea. Como se dice “fish in a barrel”? While they’re down there, they might as well just spread their legs and get it over with.

“Women really don't know how strong their legs are, Wall said.”

They could just as easily find out by sprinting the hell away from the guy.

“At one of Wall's recent seminars, police Sgt. Paul Penzone told families to keep their eyes open. Phoenix neighborhoods can be anonymous places, divided by cinderblock walls and wide streets.”

Whew. That’s a relief. All is not lost, after all. At least there’s one voice of reason out there.

OK, I'm all better now.