Green Hell

Say "Cheese(cake)!"

     Let's face it, folks: No one reads Playboy for the articles (although, admittedly, many people read Penthouse for the phony letters). 

     No one watches skin flicks in order to "warn others of the danger." 

     And no one attends DragonCon without intending to catch an eyeful of T&A. 

     In this resepect, good ol' DragonCon seldom disappoints. 

     Submitted for your approval: a random selection of images captured by J.R. and myself over the years. 

     
 This woman is dressed as a belly dancer. Call me a die-hard cynic, but I strongly doubt that anyone was paying attention to her belly -- those FAAAABULOUS earrings were entirely too distracting...

Although its origins are shrouded in mystery, belly dancing is widely believed to derive from ancient Greek, Egyptian, and Indian forms of dance, and to have risen to prominence in the Middle East. In A.D. 1260, the Mongols invaded the Middle East. Although I now understand why they did so, I wonder how the managed to remain in the saddle... 


Black Sabbath lied to us, guys. Fairies, as you can plainly see, do not wear boots. They wear heels and spandex. 

The American Heritage Dictionary defines "fairy" thusly: "A tiny supernatural being in human form, depicted as clever, mischievous, and capable of assisting or harrassing humans." OK, I'll buy the "supernatural" bit. Just compare wingspan to estimated mass. Only magic could keep those babies airborne... 


ROBIN: Holy deviance, Batman! Catwoman's into some really weird shit now! 
BATMAN: Right you are, old chum! Uh, here. Hold my utility belt for a sec, willya? 

Only at DragonCon is BDSM fetishism not merely tolerated, but actually encouraged... 


Nostalgia Dept: Vampirella.

Reminds ya of that stack of yellowing, moth-eated, black-and-white Warren mags, dry-rotting away somewhere in your basement, doesn't it? (Not sure whether the guy beside her is Uncle Creepy or Cousin Eerie, BTW.)


The finalists in the Dawn Lookalike Contest, '01 or '02, to the best of my recollection. I have no idea who Our Lady of the Blessed Electrical Tape is, but she reminded me of a cross between Wendy O. Williams and Donita Dunes. She also dished out the best quip of the evening: "Great. Now I've got flash-burns on my t**s."   
 

"Speak, Speak, Thou Fearful Guest!"

     Here's the mail I mentioned in a 2006 or 2007 post.

     I've had a touch of writer's block of late (What else is new?), and thusly decided to recharge my batteries by doing something which, if not exactly useful, is infintely preferable to vegetating. As I was working on the byrnie, the wife suggested photographing it. (God, but I love 'er! She's the only woman I've ever met who actually considers my eccentricities "cool.")

     "Hey, dear! Ya wanna learn a few basic quarterstaff moves?"
     "Really! Can I? That would be awesome!"

     Although mail isn't at all difficult to make, it's time-consuming and labor intensive. The process is simple -- if tedious: Wind several feet of 14 gauge steel wire around a 3/8" dowel. Slip the coil off the dowel, and saw or otherwise cut it into rings. (You Bruce Lee-types can practice your "Tae Kung Jitsu" chops, if you like. You won't accomplish Jack Shit insofar as cutting the coils is concerned, but it's gotta be a worthwile form of hand conditioning, right?...) File the burrs off each ring so that the ends butt together neatly, and close with two pairs of pliers. Hang four closed links on one open link, then close it. Make a few dozen of these "butterflies," then connect them with additional open rings. Keep going until you have something wearable.

    To reiterate: It's a tedious process -- but I've found that consuming large quantities of beer whilst cranking up Cirith Ungol and other get-a-life '80s metal bands (Fates Warning, Omen, etc.) on the ol' ghetto blaster is rather an effective mood enhancer/ennui buster. (So is peyote, incidentally -- but don't be surprised if the finished product ends up looking as if Salvador Dali or M.C. Escher had designed it...)



On active steed, with lance and blade,
The light-arm’d pricker plied his trade,--
Let nobles fight for fame;

Let vassals follow where they lead,
Burghers to guard their townships bleed,
But war’s the Borderer’s game.

Their gain, their glory, their delight,
To sleep the day, maraud the night,
O’er mountain, moss and moor;

Joyful to the fight they took their way,
Scarce caring who might win the day,
Their booty was secure.

-- Sir Walter Scott, "Marmion"

     As I mentioned in my '06 or '07 post, mail is an effective defense -- to a certain extent. After steeling myself with a substantial tranfusion of poor, ol' John Barleycorn's blood, I field tested the (then sleeveless) haburgeon by ramming one of my large collection of sharp, pointy objects into my chest. To my delight, the mail held. To my sorrow, the gap between the rings allowed 1/4" or so of blade to pass through. It might have been my imagination, but I swear I could almost feel the point grating against my breastbone. I also had an immense, black, blue and purple bruise to show for it.

     Lesson #1: Don't test your armor by stabbing yourself whilst plastered, numbnuts!
     Lesson #2: YOU may think your latest exercise in handicraft is jes' da shee-yawt. The laws of  
                      physics, physiology, etc., however, may very well beg to differ with you -- and painfully  
                      so, at that.



     As you can see from the closeup photo, 20+ pounds of linked steel makes for a tough, flexible, barrier 'twixt one's delicate hide and the naughty, perpetually out-of-sorts malcontents who specialize in breaching the delicate hides of the unwary. Be that as it may, mail has its limits -- said limits amply demonstrated by empirical observation, in my case.
     "Wull feck me daid!" says I, reaching for the betadine, iodine, alcohol, and hydrogen peroxide. "AC 5 is as overrated as Pauline Reage, Anais Nin or that 'Marquis de Shah-day' baysturd! Gawddam 'at Gary Gygax! Soon as I sober up, I'm'on' stomp a mudhole in 'at sumbitch's 'ace,' an' walk 'at sucker dry!"

    Oops! Did I say that out loud? Must be all the banana peels I smoked this morning...

     Now where was I? Oh, yeah! Mail's inherent limitations (which, as Clint Eastwood hath us assuréd, a man's got to know): Although it defeats slashes (especially from short swords and daggers), it's vulnerable to thrusts; said vulnerability increasing with the mass of the thrusting weapon and the strength of the wielder. It offers no protection against blunt trauma. Ergo, a sufficiently powerful drawcut will inflict bruises -- and perhaps even fractures -- whether or not it draws blood. For this reason, mail is no defense at all against mass weapons (maces, clubs, flails, morning stars, etc.). Moreover, the "long-haired sons of the northern world" discovered in short order that mail -- even the top-shelf variety with riveted links -- is an axeman's wet dream: the demonically perfect combination of mass, leverage and cutting edge handily sunders the links and drives them into the very flesh and bone they were meant to protect; fairly guaranteeing a septic wound.  

Man Does Not Live By Bread Alone

No, by Gawd: He needs guitars, guns and other toys.

This post is just for shits'n'giggles. Even curmudgeonly sons o' bitches like me have fun at times; and I had fun go leor on Sunday, cooking out and playing guitar with my cousin. Photographing and writing about power-crazed psychopaths is a depressing line of work, and I need a break every now and then. 

Eric's playing a brand, spankin' new Ibanez AGR70. Lovely axe: sounds like tipsy, horny angels singing in Gaelic; and plays like nothing else on earth. Out of the box, the action and intonation were perfect. There's no denying that it looks like a thinner version of the Gibson Byrdland -- and it sounds every bit as good. My only complaint is the single cutaway.

Mine's a '93 "Mr. Lucky" Epiphone Sheraton II -- a 335 knock-off. Double cutaway, in case you hadn't noticed. These days, I'm hard pressed to choose a "favorite" guitar. I love this one as much as I do my Strat, my SG; my battered, thirty-year-old Aria CS 350; and the cheap, Höfner Jaguar knock-off I inherited from Chris.

Sometimes, the kid so reminds me of my brother; it ain't even funny. (The French Bulldog reminds me of my brother, too -- but that's gettin' rather off topic.) Can't remember what we were playing when Mags abandoned her Merlot to shoot this one, but I was obviously enjoying the hell out of myself.

We went through a few numbers, actually: "Sympathy for the Devil," "Eighteen," "Substitute," and a few of his originals. Like me, he began composing shortly after he took to playing. Unlike me, he took lessons from the get-go; while I spent my first year playing by ear. I owe the rest to Mr. Hajicek of HHS, Mark Burns, Ed Weir (true virtuosi, the both of them), and a very bad attitude. I still can't sight-read worth a tinker's dam (Eric's better in that respect), but we're both theory freaks -- and thusly able to improvise with minimal difficulty.

Soon as I learn the boy some "tae kwon fu jutsu," I'm gonna try to make him a member of Our Band Can Kick Your Band's Ass. And yes, we're "Ramboing" the axes. F-holes rule, bee-yawtches!

We may not be from Texas, but we've got the "Aggie Salute" down-pat. Punk ain't just a genre; it's a way of life. :-)

2012 And The Gullible

You'll never go broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public. -- P.T. Barnum

First it was Y2K.

That turned out to be a non-event.

Then it was 5/5/2000. Some schmuck (who apparently didn't understand how gravitation actually works) predicted that a planetary alignment would turn the earth upside down.

If it happened, I must have been asleep or very drunk, as I somehow missed it.

Next it was that nutty old hag who used to call Art Bell. You know, the one who heard alien voices in her head?  (Don't get me wrong; I've heard alien voices in my head, too -- but getting to that point required a metric shitload of peyote.) She insisted that an immense, extra-solar "masher" called "Planet X" was barreling towards Holy Mother Gaia, and would well and rightly bend her over the woodpile, smack her ass-cheeks and make her call him "Daddy." (I don't know what it is about the earth flipping over, but the idea sure as hell seems attractive to kooks.) Knowing damned good and well that nothing of the sort was going to happen, I bought a case of beer, headed over to J.R.'s house, and had an "end of the world party" on the appointed day.

"Planet X" (a.k.a. "Nibiru") was conspicuously absent. Matter o' fact, the bastard never did show. Ah well. More beer for me...  

And now it's December 21, 2012. As it seems, the tinfoil hatters have now latched onto the Mayan calendar, and are predicting all the usual shite. (And why couldn't the Maya have picked 12/21/2112? It would have delighted numerologists, mentallers, and hardcore Rush fans alike.)

I, for one, don't believe the Mayan calendar presages the end of the world, and I'm in good company -- neither do the Maya. ("There is no concept of apocalypse in the Mayan culture," Jesus Gomez, head of the Guatemalan confederation of Mayan priests and spiritual guides, told The Daily Telegraph when the apocalyptic disaster blockbuster 2012 was released in cinemas.) Apparently, the belief is rather widespread in Hollyweird -- but what do you expect from that bunch? Some of 'em have air-conditioned barns, for fuck's sake...

Like PX, Y2K, 5/5/00 and the last congressional election, the 2012 TEOTWAWKI scenario is a bugaboo, intended to distract us from relevant issues (creeping globalism, the impending economic meltdown, the Gulf catastrophe, etc.). In addition to serving as a diversion, the 2012 hype smacks of not-so-subtle conditioning. I'm sure 2012 holds something very nasty for all of us -- but it has nothing to do with primitive mysticism, and everything to do with the plans and desires of the global elite. Otherwise they wouldn't be ramming the date down our throats.

The most blatant piece of propaganda, naturally, was the recent film 2012. Granted, it wasn't very original, but it neatly wrapped up several familiar pop-culture threads and presented them in a single package that reeked of elitism.

Most noteworthy was the "natural" disaster theme. Disaster films have always been popular, but the natural-disaster-as-global threat device only gained momentum in the '90s -- perhaps because it was more believable than the "alien invasion" scenarios that dominated sci-fi from the 1950s onward.

Come to think of it, SyFy doesn't air much of anything else: Category Googolplex: Big Ol' Muthafuckin' Tornado, Global Megablizzard:The Day the Earth Froze Its Balls Off , Dino-Desertification vs. Ultratsunami: Nature Stomps a Mudhole in Our Ass, Flash Flood IV: Up Shit Creek, Ozone Hole:Humanity is Toast* etc.

(*That bugaboo went the way of the dodo rather quickly, now didn't it? As I recall, the story stayed up about as long Michael Jackson's pants -- in a day-care center.)

In all of these clunkers, the disaster must be kept secret. If the commoners knew what was coming, they'd panic and all hell would break loose. If that happened, the elites might have trouble escaping to the secret bunkers that also feature prominently in all of these crypto-Nazi/eugenicist wet dreams. The earliest and nastiest example of this line of "thought" was Deep Impact, in which Morgan Freeman's psychopath character decided that a tiny handful of "the best and brightest" (that term, however, has become suspect since the Vietnam era. I believe the current buzzword is "educated elites") could do more to save the planet from an oncoming asteroid than could 6,000,000,000 minds and bodies working together towards a common goal. The combination of arrogance and presumptuousness is breathtaking, but it seems to be par for the course among megalomaniacs.

Another common element is martial law -- although most of the writers/directors stop short of depicting Tiananmen Square-style massacres. (I gather that we're supposed to be intimidated rather than literally in fear for our lives. We might actually become a tad aggressive in the latter case...) Presumably, the nice men with the full-auto weapons are condemning the masses to certain death for their own good (rather like a typical UN "peackeeping force), and we savages are expected to accept our immolation as being necessary and desirable.

If there's another explanation, for this recurring motif, I'd like to hear it.

There are other staples, of course: The sincere, dedicated environmental scientist who desperately tries to warn us before it's too late; the wise, benevolent guru-type (often a non-caucasoid) who either holds the pitiful band of squabbling survivors together or selflessly lays down his life for them; the "gifted" teenage smartass whose opinions are oddly similar to those the writer expressed in an interview shortly before ralphing up his preachy hairball of a screenplay, etc.*

And of course, there's the "weenie": these catastrophes are all man-made. In this respect, little has changed since the fifties -- except for one thing: In the newer films, the villain is Everyman, addicted to the internal combustion engine, the flesh of beasts whose flatus destroys the atmosphere, and such luxuries as electricity and indoor plumbing. Conspicuously absent is the old-timey mad scientist/over-the-top generalissimo/ with his sinister, three-handled, earth-wrecking family credenza.

Coincidence, I'm sure.

Believe me, the shitbags who've back-doored these ideas into the mainstream culture worry me far more than the prospect of the earth having a grand mal seizure.

Instead of nervously watching the calendar; keep an eye on the bastards who dream up and force-feed is "propa-tainment" of this sort.

*This noxious character is my least favorite of all the aforementioned cliches. My primary reason for quitting TAG was my inability to abide the presence of condescending pricks.

Glorious Trash From Days Gone By

OK, I watched too much television and too many weird movies as a child. Perhaps my parents' were right, and they warped my mind. If so, who cares? This is great stuff!

Batman
Sinbad vs. Kali (Ray Harryhausen at his best.)
Land of the Lost
Snow Miser/Heat Miser (The Year Without a Santa Claus)
Speed Racer
Iron Man
The Incredible Hulk
Captain America
Spiderman
Starblazers
Gamera (Movie theme)
S.W.A.T

 

 

Fun With Fabric and Snowy Weather: "Camo Claus"?

My Christmas present, courtesy of the wife -- whose sense of humor is as warped as my own.

We're both history buffs. I'm a sucker for "period" gear and clothing, while she's an unbelievably talented seamstress. We've just witnessed Georgia's first White Christmas in more years than anyone can remember, so what more appropriate present than a camouflaged 18th century forage cap? 

To the best of my knowledge, it's the only one of its kind -- unless some other pair of demented freaks had the same idea. But nah, what's the probability of that?

The Ghastly Consequences of Intemperance

Got a little whacked last night, and shaved my chin on a dare. (Pretty tame for me, actually. Ten or so years ago, I got a little whacked and shaved something else on a dare. At least it was part of my "corpus" this time...)

Just call me Ambrose fucking Burnside...

Naturally, the wife hates it -- so she just had to take a photo and post in on Facebook.

"Here's some fookin' information fer ye' to be totally aware of, ye' intrusive, Nazi gobshites!"

Reflections in the Glass Toilet

Grrr.

The wife is watching Ghost Hunters, which leaves me in the unenviable position of taking in "sidestream television." Whilst enduring this legal form of torture, I saw a disturbing Allstate commercial.

I've since concluded that upon rear-ending an inattentive, coffee-swilling lawyer's $90,000 car; it's best to exit your vehicle, draw your weapon, and throw some lead into the base of the inconsiderate gobshite's skull. It's gotta beat the hell out of being sued, nicht wahr?

This is America, AD 2010 -- and we both know that you have more time than money...

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.

Food as Medicine

Mags and I had a ball during Aaron's and Vanessa's last visit, and look forward to seeing them again. I suppose the Chinese medicinal soup recipe I gave them was a tad abbreviated, as I wasn't sure how much time I had to leave the voice-mail – not to mention that I was probably talking a mile a minute. A few days later, one of them called back, asking me to leave it again – but it slipped my mind. This is the complete, detailed recipe. I'm glad they liked it, I'm glad it did the trick, and I'd be just as glad to post the recipe if anyone else can benefit from trying it. I eat a bowl or two whenever I need a "pick me up," and J.R.'s fiancée, Kelly, can also vouch for its effectiveness.

1 lb beef trimmed and cubed.
10 dried shiitake mushrooms, soaked in one cup boiling water for twenty minutes, then drained (reserve water) and halved or sliced.
½ oz. dried Chinese wolfberries (Lycium chinense)
½ cup rice wine. For best results use Chinese "yellow" wine (9-10%) -- not Japanese sake, the cloudy, Korean stuff (granted, it tastes great, but it leaves an unattractive yeast residue at the bottom of the pot), or that Godawful "cooking" rice wine.
½ pint distilled water
½ cup reserved mushroom liquid
Sea salt or rock salt, freshly ground black pepper, and toasted sesame seed oil, to taste

Brown beef cubes in a little oil. Drain and set aside. (If beef is especially greasy, immerse in warm water; then pour off water and excess fat.)

Heat water to boiling. Add beef, wine, wolfberries and ½ cup reserved mushroom liquid. Return to boiling, reduce heat to low and simmer until beef is tender; 2-2.5 hours. Ladle into individual bowls and add sea salt, pepper and sesame oil to taste.

A few notes, comments, etc.:

1.) It's pricey, but I recommend using USDA certified organic beef. A typical American cow eats swill that could gag a maggot, and is so full of growth hormones and whatnot; I've heard one can end up like Lyle Alzado merely by making eye contact with one of the poor critters. I don't trust imported beef at all, and wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.

2.) Chinese wolfberries (Lycium chinense) are obtainable at most oriental groceries, and are always available from Chinese herbalists. Mags and I can also provide them for a very reasonable price.

3.) If you have the choice, purchase a package of fresh shiitakes from an oriental grocery or well-stocked farmers' market and dry them yourselves. Maggie and I dry our herbs in the tool-shed (it serves the purpose wonderfully), but in a pinch, the oven works nearly as well. Simply set it on "warm" and prop the door open half an inch or so, to allow the water vapor to escape. We buy our dried shiitake in bulk packages at the Buford Highway Farmers' Market or the Hong Kong Supermarket, as we save a bundle in so doing. Dried shiitake, however, often contain sulfites. Neither of us reacts adversely to them, but some people do. This poses a problem. In order to reap the full benefits of the soup, you should add the water used to reconstitute them. If you're sulfite-sensitive, you'll want to pour off the soaking liquid. If, on the other hand, sulfites don't bother you; it's smooth sailing.

I'd also caution you against pissing away your hard-earned denarii on Dynasty, Ka-Me and other overpriced brands unless you have no choice. If there's anything to be said for so-called "globalism" and (chuckle) "free trade," it's that that we're no longer at the mercy of rapacious, American specialty companies… If you don't have an oriental market in your neck of the woods, we can also provide dried shiitakes.

4.) Rice wines come in many varieties. What you'll need is Chinese "yellow" wine, i.e. simple, fermented rice wine. Chinese "white" wine (a.k.a. "fire wine") is a distilled spirit, more like vodka or whiskey than wine, per se. In a pinch, I suppose you could use sake, but the dish doesn't taste as good.

Now as for the theory behind it all…

I can't vouch for the myths surrounding this recipe, but supposedly, one Taoist sage or another ate the stuff every day and lived to be 250. Personally, I wouldn't want to spend 250 years on this shithole of a planet, but I suppose it's best to be healthy whilst serving one's sentence.

Beef is a blood, stomach, spleen and energy tonic. It regulates energy circulation, and is neutral (neither hot nor cold,) sweet and mildly yang.

Shiitake mushrooms (lentinula edodes) are a yin and stomach tonic, and regulate both sputum and energy circulation. They're also neutral, sweet and mildly yang. They're also believed to lower blood fat and cholesterol levels, while experiments conducted in Japan suggest that the enzyme lentinan shows anticancer activity.

Dried wolfberries (lycium chinense) are a blood, liver and kidney tonic. They're said to raise the spirits and slow aging by improving muscle growth and retarding grey hair and rough skin. They're sweet, neutral, and said to act upon the kidney, liver and lung meridians. They're also used to treat dizziness and blurred vision.

I don't think the recipe does much for hairy palms, so I guess you're shit out o' luck, John.... Heh heh heh…

More Soup

My bro, John (he of the hirsute hands), bought me one hell of a birthday present – a ticket to the Motorhead gig at the Fillmore in Charlotte, NC the weekend of the eleventh. The show was fantastic (I'll have more to say about it later), and as always, I had a great time. Yeah, we acted like a couple of drunken assholes, but what do you expect from two Celts who never really grew up? Besides, no animals, immigrants or epileptics were harmed during the proceedings (we didn't even hijack the little school bus with tinted windows and crash it into a retirement home), so what the fuck? We were so well-behaved, as a matter of fact; the only injury I sustained was a twisted ankle whilst negotiating his backyard in the dark. (The "Jimmy Riddle" was occupied, and I really had to go…)

Mags, unfortunately, didn't fare so well. She's not what you'd call a Motorhead fan (and I can't imagine her putting up with King's X for any length of time), so she enjoyed a quiet (read: husband-and-his-asshole-buddies-free) evening at John's place while he and I compromised our self-respect with a vengeance and otherwise enjoyed the show. Now we're the ones who were out tanking up, headbanging, otherwise lowering our resistance, and exposing ourselves to God-alone-knows what kind of microorganisms at the show, OK?

Care to guess who gets sick the next morning, though?

Yep -- the wife. I dragged my ass out of bed sometime between sunrise and noon, had a little "hair of the dog" (and it was a reg'lar pit bull, lemme tell ye'…) and went to check on the spousal unit. Needless to say, she wasn't doing very well. I spent some time observing her and noticed that her symptoms were disturbingly flu-like. She was clammy, sweaty, nauseous, and had a nasty, rumbling cough. Now I've had bad experiences treating females with influenza, so I very nearly had a "flashback" – before remembering where I was.

Back in '84, my girlfriend came down with the flu. Her folks were out of town, and she was supposed to spend the night at her best friend's house. Unfortunately, that was nearly half a mile away, she was sick as a dog, and it was a rather cold winter evening. Not being as much of a prick as I'd like people to believe, I promptly called Ma Bean and had her pick us up. Ma called her parents and explained the situation to them, and we spent the rest of the evening babying her. For my pains, I came down with the flu a couple days later…

I caught it once more in 1997 – the same year I stopped going to doctors and took up "alternative" medicine, by the way. And I haven't had it since – knock on wood. Mags, though, has rather weak chi (we're working on it…), and is more susceptible to certain illnesses than I am. Now I understand that there's no scientific basis for alternative/Chinese/Amerind/Ayurvedic medicine, yadda yadda yadda. I also know that it works, so I'll let the scientists worry about the apparent paradoxes.

In some ways, I'm a bit more robust these days than I was at seventeen or even thirty, so I was more worried about the wife than about myself. Not being quite the prick I'd have people believe (to reiterate), I explained my predicament to dairlin' Johnny-O. Being a hell of a bro, he had us on the road in no time. Unfortunately, Charlotte's Asian population ain't as large as Atlanta's – and I'd left my "toybox" at home. I should have learned my lesson in Colorado in '08, when I suffered a fractured rib and had to mooch some tieh tah wan (it tastes awful, and merely reading the ingredient label serves as a mild emetic, but it works like a charm…) from a friend, but I didn't. Since I couldn't obtain the herbs I needed, I opted for nutritional therapy and acupressure.

Now Harris-Teeter ain't the best supermarket chain on earth. They charge Publix-level prices, but only offer Wal-Mart- or Ingles-level service, but beggars can't be choosers. I found most of the things I needed and made the soup for Mags. After feeding her some, prodding a few pressure points, resorting to a bit of reflexology and an ancient Muskogee healing ritual that's been handed down for generations (just kidding about that part – I'm less than 1/200 Indian, and am probably the whitest white guy on earth) I had her on her feet again in a couple hours.

This "miracle food," incidentally, was nothing but an Asian version of "Jewish Mothers' penicillin": chicken soup. The complete recipe follows.

1 lb chicken parts, minimum – preferably with bones, although breasts also work very well
3 quarter-sized slices ginger root (unpeeled)
1 stalk celery, with leaves
1 carrot (unpeeled)
½ bunch parsley (preferably flat-leaf)
3 cloves garlic, crushed
3-4 whole scallions, with roots
1 dried chile
½ head Savoy or Chinese cabbage, chopped (optional)
6 shiitake mushrooms, reconstituted and sliced
2 medium portabella mushrooms, sliced (optional)
½ cup button mushrooms, sliced (optional)
water to cover
sea salt to taste
few drops sesame oil

Bring water, chicken, chile and herbs to the boil. Reduce heat and simmer one hour, skimming foam as it rises. Remove carrot, celery, parsley, garlic and scallions. Remove chicken and cut from bones. Return chicken to soup, along with mushrooms. Return to boiling, reduce heat, cover, and simmer 20 minutes. longer. Add cabbage, simmer five to ten minutes longer, add sesame oil and salt to taste, then serve.

73%? Good Enough For Me...

What a co-inky-dink...

Mags and I rented Romero's Land of the Dead today, only to find that one of our demented Bros on the Animal List had sent this test.

Needless to say, I took it.

My score:

73%

Now beat it, or I'll tell an unforgivably tasteless "Groundhog Day" joke...

Ah, What the Hell? One More, Jes' Fer Shits'n'Giggles!

Your Hidden Talent

You have the natural talent of rocking the boat, thwarting the system. And while this may not seem big, it can be. It's people like you who serve as the catalysts to major cultural changes. You're just a bit behind the scenes, so no one really notices.

What's Your Hidden Talent?