Green Hell

Timeo Danaos et Dona Ferentes

    I'll be attending a Hallowe'en party tonight. As most of the crowd is "a little bit country, and a little bit rock 'n' roll," I'll be throwing a curveball by going very European. And that has nothing whatsoever to do with the remainder of this post. 

   I finally got off my dead ass and finished the bucklers I've been threatening to make since spring. 



     These will be used in practice, which means they'll be subject to wear and tear. The greatest annoyance I've experienced in the past is that of attaching serviceable grips, which are the weakest points. Even the best leather, and even suppported by washers at that, tends stretch and rip when bolted directly to the body.  At first, I thought of drilling and sawing (or routing, if ever I manage to find the friggin' router) four slots into the wood, and slipping the straps through them. The obvious drawback to that approach was the fact that the leather is exposed on the shield-face. and a few solid blows -- even from an edgeless "beater" -- will greatly decrease its lifespan. 

   This time, I decided to attach the straps (which I cut from an inexpensive belt-blank) to a pair of $0.99 drawer-pulls, fold them under, and rivet them to themselves. The drawer-pulls are bolted to the body, supported by six washers each. If this doesn't go far enough towards extending the buckers' lifespans (even with washers, the holes will eventually expand through wear and tear), I'm going to try drilling the holes a fraction of an inch larger, and lining them with brass or steel tubing, cut and ground to an exact fit and secured with J-B Weld or "Gorilla Snot."

   I'll let y'all know how it works. 

And There Was Much Rejoicing...

     My new, mostest favoritest place in the whole, wide world: Cindy's Herbs, 5209 Buford Highway, Doraville.
     I was out grocery shopping today, when I spotted the sign from the highway and decided to have a look-see at their selection. As you may have gathered by now, I wasn't at all disappointed. Cindy's carries tieh ta wan/dit da yun, zheng gu shui, and damn-near everytihng else a martial artist possessed more of enthusiasm than of discretion could want or need.  

    While I'm on the subject, the herb shop in Great Wall (2300 Pleasant Hill Road, Duluth) ain't bad, either. 
     

A Workout for Masochists

     During this morning's workout, I got the urge to cheat, after a fashion. As I'm on a three-day (MWF, this cycle) split with two days recovery time between the third workout of one week and the first of the following, I'm technically not supposed to lift weights on Saturday or Sunday. 

     "Well fuck that noise!" as my buddies at the Benedictine Monastery used to say during their Friday night poker games. 

     Being a fairly creative mentaller, I quickly fashioned a compromise of sorts. 

    I removed the plates from a 6' Bollinger Starlock™ bar, and used it to practice bo and quarterstaff techniques.

     Wow! That was a workout! I found that I could only perform them at half or less the usual speed, lest I risk yet another set of injuries. Five minutes into the routine (ten reps of each basic technique, followed by combinations), I was sweating like the proverbial lady of the evening in the house of the Lord, and I was feeling "the burn" in muscles of whose existence I was only half-aware before I began the workout. 

    If you'd like to try this yourself, go very slowly at first, and emphasize proper form rather than speed or power. 

    This is hardly an original idea, by the way. Roman gladiators routinely practiced with double-weight weapons, as did legionary recruits under the reforms foisted upon the army by one of the "warhorse" strongmen of the late Republic or early Empire. (I'm thinking it was either Marius or Octavian/Augustus, but don't quote me on that.) 

     And yes, I watch gladiator movies all the time. You mean you don't? 

     Why, just the other day, my comrade-in-arms, John, and I, were halfway through a pile of Steeve Reeves flicks we'd rented for inspiration. John is one of the few friends I have who's acquired something approaching a genuine, classical education, so we have quite a bit in common. (As a matter of fact, when my wife called him "Jeff" by accident a few weeks ago, I responded with "This, too, is Alexander." She then suspected that we had entirely too much "in common" and slapped both of us in the face.) 

   That, incidentally, is just one glaring symptom of the benightedness of our age. For all the facade of "tolerance" and open-mindedness we put up, any bond of genuine cameraderie between two men is automatically suspect. John and I were lamenting this very fact after the film-fest, as we rubbed each other down with olive oil as a prelude to two hours of intensive, nude jujutsu and pancration. 

    Yeah, fine. I'm going way over the top again, ain't I? You got me.

    I just wanna see how John and Maggie react when and if they read this. 

    As you were. 

Miscellaneous, Mucilaginous Crapola

Worth Reading

     I’m thirty pages into The Way of the Samurai, Mishima’s commentary on Yamamoto’s Hagakure. Whatever one may think of Yamamoto or Mishima, the latter, in particular, closed his life with the same post script Ayn Rand claimed she’d put at the end of hers: “And I mean it!”

     You’ve gotta respect that…

     Speaking of books, I’m not as sold on Lenox Cramer’s War With Empty Hands as I was during my impulsive, wayward youth. The recommended fitness program simply doesn’t allow enough recovery time, especially for hard-gainers. Unless the trainee takes a clear weak off every 8-12 weeks, it’s a quick ticket to burnout/overtraining.
     The techniques and combinations in Brad Steiner’s Subway Survival are more practical, more “human engineered,” and easier to learn and teach, especially if you happen to be teaching women. Moreover, Cramer’s method pays little attention to grappling and infighting, and none to awareness, E &E, or the legal ramifications of “pulling a Kung-Fu Jones” on another biped – however worthy said biped is of complete and instant neutralization.
     And the training-wear suggested in the book is downright silly. Being somewhat traditional in my outlook I train in a formal uniform when the mood strikes me. Being a realist, I also train in the clothes I wear every day. For some reason, I can’t imagine myself saying, “Ok, asshole! You just screwed the pooch! Now wait a sec while I change into my gi” in the course of a real altercation.  I’ve trained in BDUs, as Cramer recommends, and while there’s much to be said for the freedom of motion they afford, I’m not in the habit of gallivanting about town dressed like a reject from the Michigan Militia. Call me paranoid, but it occurs to me that doing so might attract unwanted attention. Unless I’m wearing plain black or khaki (in which case they’re indistinguishable from cargo-pants), I usually wear jeans. Ergo, it makes more sense to train in jeans.  

     I do wear a bandana to keep the sweat out of my eyes, and to hold my hair back when I’m not wearing a pony-tail. I encourage my wife to do likewise. I do not demand, however, that she wear a specific color. If she prefers lilac or day-glo pink to the basic black or khaki I employ, more power to her. As long as she’s polite and attentive during our sessions, I see no need to play the “I’m the instructor, you’re the student. That means I get to wear this color, but you have to wear that one! So nyah!” game.
     I’ve found that I fight equally well (or equally poorly, as the case may be) no matter the color of the belt or headband I’m wearing. Moreover, I’m temperamentally leery of the kind of power- and ego-tripping the belt-mill mentality breeds. The longer I train and study, the more convinced I am that there are no masters – just serious and not-so-serious students. I suppose it’s a classic case of increased knowledge and understanding serving only to illustrate just how much one still has to learn. That, incidentally, is one of the things I most enjoy about teaching (for all that I do so infrequently, informally, and never for money): having the responsibility of hunting down the answers to questions I might never have thought to ask.


Training Notes 8/16/14

     I actually did it!  For once, I managed to complete a workout without my perv of a wife committing my arse to film/video chip while my back was turned. It’s rather a tough job, bein’ this feckin’ GAHR-geous, but somebody has to do it. And I suppose we can’t all be me, after all…

     Been tried for murder
      In the first degree
     The Judge’s wife
     Said, “Let da MAAAN go free!” 

    Now allow me a long digression, if you’ll be so kind.
    When I began weight training seriously, a little over a year ago, I dreaded the prospect of performing squats. Owing to various injuries, my knees, if you don’t mind the slightly off-kilter reference, are my Achilles’ heel.
     In a freak accident during January of ’99, I managed to screw up the right member of the pair eight ways to Sunday. By way of conveying the seriousness of the injury, I’ll mention that I had to employ a cane for six months, and it wasn’t until over a year later that I could walk without a limp.
     The joint’s mobility suffered, as well. For the first couple of months, I could only bring the calf/shin perpendicular to the thigh. Beyond the obvious, physical handicap, the psychological effects were devastating. I’d reached the brown belt level in mid ‘96, and at the time I sustained the injury, had 150 or more training-hours in-grade. All that work: 3-6 hours of training a day, six days a week, and now it seemed that I’d never earn my black belt. Worse by far was the fact that I’d lost the use of my longest and strongest weapon – my right leg. Not only was I unable to kick with it; I was unable to kick at all. The joint was too weak to support my weight when I tried to use my left.  

    Now the spinning side kick, which I mention for a reason, is practically useless in a serious fight. Turning one’s back, even for a fraction of a second, on a determined adversary is tantamount to inviting a knife to the kidney. In my opinion, the technique is good for two things: 1.) Finishing an already-stunned adversary; 2.) Impressing chicks. As I’ve mentioned, it necessitates turning one’s back on an enemy, and it’s nearly impossible to throw without telegraphing it in from Dallas.
    
     Flashy, impractical, and as dangerous to the user as it is to his intended target.
    

     Yep. You’ve guessed it. It was my favorite technique. I honestly don’t know how many hours I spent working on it. I practiced it at the dojo before, after, and in-between classes. As my instructors had given me a key, I went in and practiced it on days when the dojo was closed. I practiced it against trees, walls, and my Century Wavemaster when I was home. By the time I earned my brown belt, I could bowl the Wavemaster over, and whereas other students practiced theirs against an air-shield, I had to work mine on a folded gym-mat, with two guys on the others side, holding it up. When I tested for my brown belt, I used it to break three boards (no shims or spacers) – after running three miles, performing seven different kata (with demonstrations of bunkai), multiple sets of nine different offensive and defensive combinations (18 combinations total) on each side, and (Happy, happy! Joy, joy!) free-sparring all the black-belts. The kicker: the next-highest tester was going for his green belt. I was performing solo, with little chance to rest, for most of the examination.
      And now, all of that was gone. The resulting depression lasted for months, and it was the worst I’d endured since my ex-girlfriend ripped out my guts and tap-danced on them in ’89.

    Although the knee has long since healed, it’s still temperamental. When I began lifting weights again last year, I was barely able to squat with 60 on the bar, and my knees were cracking and popping in protest even then. To make a long story short, I kept at it, increasing the weight five pounds at a time, and supplementing the squats with leg-curls and leg-extensions during the lower-body phases of my workouts.
     Last Wednesday, I managed to break the 200-mark, and today, I upped the poundage to 215. I don’t imagine the typical Olympic power-lifter has much to worry about, but for a guy who could barely walk fifteen years ago? I’m pretty happy. This week is the last of my shoulder phase, and the real test, the leg phase, begins on Monday. Let’s see how that spinning side kick works now…. {{Evil Chuckle}}.

    For whatever unfathomable reason (prolonged manic episode, perhaps?), I’ve been in higher spirits of late. I suppose the current playlist betrays the fact.  

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance – Gene Pitney
Little Red Riding Hood – Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs
Mother’s Blue-Eyed Angel – The Herd
All American Man – KISS
Henry VIII – Herman’s Hermits
Fish Heads – Barnes & Barnes
They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha Ha! – Napoleon XIV
Double Shot of My Baby’s Love – Swingin’ Medallions
Nobody But Me – Human Beinz
Ain’t Got No Home – Clarence “Frogmouth” Henry
Little T&A – Rolling Stones
Boom Boom – John Lee Hooker
Pearl Necklace – Z.Z. Top
Howlin' for You - The Black Keys
Promised Land -- Elvis Presley

For Gerry, "The EYE-talian Rapscallion": Conditioning

     You see what you get, Silat-Boy? You see what you get when you mess with the Orphans? Uh, I mean, "When you post photos of your equipment on Facebook?" (I'll refrain from offering to "rain" on you, as I'm fairly certain that you could kick my ass without breaking a sweat.) 

     In all seriousness, this is as fancy as I get.
     The bag is canvas, filled with navy beans. I made it myself, but at the time, I wasn't skilled enough at sewing to add certain features I'd now like to have. When the beans are reduced to powder, I'll add pintos and so forth, until I work my way up to steel ball-bearings. It's good for conditioning all surfaces of the hand, and the elbows, as well.
      I'm already using the carbon steel bar for shin- and forearm conditioning, rolling-pin-style, as well as for light impact against the forearms. Some time ago, I read an article in which Pan Qing Fu opined that steel was better than other materials for conditioning, and given his decades of experience, I'll assume that he knew what he was talking about.
      The other items are insurance against overzealousness. Well, the jow (same formula Baron von Grouchenstein sent me ten or so years ago -- it's probably better for me than the absinthe, but I was equally happy to receive it) is something I use every day, before and after, but the tieh ta wan and zheng gu shui are for the occasional, serious fuck-up. (Call me a superstitious, Irish peasant, but I've found that qigong likewise augments the training regimen very nicely.)

Good Stuff!

    As y'all know, I'm not in the habit of shilling products -- especially anything that purports to be a miracle cure for this or that ailment. Call me a die-hard cynic, but today's "miracle cure" is tomorrow's "silent killer." And if I *do* recommend a given product, it's because I've used it and had good results with it. Those products, as you may have gathered, are few and far between.

     There are a few exceptions to the general rule, though. Although the stuff is very hard to obtain (and, to the best of my knowledge, illegal in this country) xiong tan tieh ta wan (bear-gall injury pills) are truly amazing. Six years ago, I ended up with a broken rib  -- at my own wedding, no less. And of course, like a consummate dumbass, I'd left my "toy box" of oddball herbs at home. A friend of mine got wind of the injury, and quietly passed me a few doses of the aforementioned substance. While he was explaining how to use it, he noted that he was sorry he hadn't brought his needles. Had he been able to administer acupuncture, the injury probably would have healed even faster. (I'd love to have the guy write the occasional guest post on this blog, by the way. I am not personally acquainted with anyone who knows more about traditional Chinese medicine.) 
    I was only able to take two of the pills, as one of the TSA scumbags at Hartsfield stole the last dose from my suitcase, but the medicine was truly incredible. I've had more broken bones than I care to recall, and on the average, they take six weeks to heal. Thanks to the tieh ta wan, the rib mended in only three. Owing to the difficulty in obtaining it (and because I'm ethically opposed to consuming parts of endangered animals), I also use Kapok Brand Circuherb Tea Extract, and Yang Cheng Brand tieh ta wan, which is very similar, minus the bear gall. If you'd rather make larger batches, the formulas are here.

   The other product I recommend is Yunnan Bai Yao, which is available here, if you don't have a Chinese herablist in your area. The exact formula is a closely guarded secret, but the most prominent in the mix are Panax pseudoginseng, P. notoginseng, and dioscorea root. Although it tastes horrid, the results of taking it have to be seen to be believed.
     A few months ago, my dog, Conor either got his foot caught in something, or ran afoul of a snapping turtle. We'll probably never know. As a result of the mishap, he lost three of his toes. After rushing him to the animal emergency clinic, I contacted my buddy, who recommended giving him a dog-sized dose (about 1/4  of standard for a dog his size) once or twice a day until the wound healed. And heal it did. The vets were absolutely stunned at the speed with which he mended. Earlier this summer, my Ma sustained a deep, nasty cut whilst working in the yard. The wound became infected, and refused to heal properly. I administered the YBY externally and internally, as a result of which it began to heal visibly within twenty-four hours. I've used it myself for one injury, with equally stunning results.



     L: Yunnan Bai Yao. R: Kapok Brand tieh ta wan.

     The last item I'll post isn't for sale anywhere that I know of. It's a recipe, and you'll have to obtain the herbs and make it yourself. It's for the ladies, incidentally.This is an indelicate subject, but a few years ago, right around her fiftieth birthday, my wife began going through menopause -- and it wasn't a pleasant experience for the poor thing. Hot flashes, night-sweats, insomnia, dizziness -- the whole nine yards. I made her a batch of the following "potion," and it did the trick. I've also given the stuff to younger females who have to contend with PMS. 
 
     Take one quart of vodka or Chinese "fire wine," and steep 8g each of the following ingredients for six weeks to six months. 

     Angelica sinensis
     Rehmannia glutinosa
     Paeonia lactiflora
     Astragalus membraneceus
     Poria cocos
     Glycyrrhizia uralensis
     Codonopsis Tangshen
     Ligusticum wallichii 

     Take a one-ounce shot twice a day on an empty stomach until symptoms are relieved. In the case of PMS, begin taking it a week before -- well, you know. Daniel Reid's The Complete Book of Chinese Health and Healing mentions that it's also good for men who suffer from anemia. A word of caution, though: Maggie had to stop taking it after a couple of months, as she began having (in her words), her "monthly visitor" again. 

     I've seen this one premeasured and boxed up at various Asian markets, but I've noticed that the herbs aren't of the highest quality. If you have the choice, it's better to buy them individually from a reputable herbalist and measure them out yourself especially if you're new to the field. I learned my lesson the hard way some years ago, when I got screwed on a box of Cordyceps fungus. 

     Until next time...

Two Remedies for Boo-Boos

     OK, so I lied a little about the jow recipe.

    “How dare you, Bean?” shrieks the Gentle Reader. “I just busted my knuckles on the makiwara, with the understanding that you’d post a remedy, you prevaricating Irish fuck!”

     Cool your jets, Daniel San. Miyagi fix you up real good. Before I post the jow recipe, I have to make sure it’s OK to do so. With the exceptions of formulae I dig up on my own, I never publish a recipe without the express consent of the guy who taught me to make it.

    The following is a common (but very effective) tieh ta wan/dit da yun recipe. I use it myself (I wouldn’t be posting the formula if I didn’t), and I can vouch for its efficacy. It’s for internal use, and hardcore martial arts buffs will note that the list of ingredients is very similar to jow, minus the toxic stuff (nux vomica, monkshood, etc.)

     1g ginseng root
     800mg Chinese angelica root
     800mg safflower
     800mg turmeric root
     600mg dragon’s blood
     600mg frankincense

     Grind all ingredients into powder, and mix with honey to form pills. Take twice per day (the recipe is good for one dose), until injury heals. Yes, it tastes like shit, and yes, it works – although not as well as the justly coveted bear gall formula. (That stuff, by the way, is incredible. Two doses, and I managed to heal a broken rib in *three weeks* -- half the time a fracture usually requires to mend; and I’m a smoker, even!)

     The next one isn’t bad either – although it tastes especially horrid. The ingredients, you’ll notice, are quite similar to those in xiong tan tieh ta wan, minus the inula, bear gall, and angelica. The following recipe makes 100g, to be divided into individual doses of 8-10g. When dissolved in vodka or other strong spirits, it can also be used exnternally, just like jow.

    28g panax pseudoginseng
     25g safflower
     15g turmeric root
     15g amomi fruit (a.k.a. "black cardamom")
     17g Chinese rhubarb root
     
     Grind all ingredients to powder, and combine with honey, to make pills. 

     Moving right along...

    I don’t usually plug strangers, but if you’re interested in the “real deal,” check out the website of a guy named James Lacy. Lacy runs a California-based outfit called Mew Hing, and he knows Chinese herbal medicine like nobody’s business. Although he’s not the type who’d betray his lineage by giving away any deep, dark secrets, he’s never published a bum formula, in my experience. His “Five Elder dit da jow” is a bit pricey (and time-consuming) to make (soak herbs in vodka, and play “hurry up and wait” for the next six months), but well worth the time and expense. Although I’ve never met the man in person, I can say (and I’m sure thousands of others would agree with me) that Lacy is the injury-prone martial artist’s best friend. On a more subjective note, I’ll mention that as a (frequently backsliding, by my own admission) Christian, I’m doubly impressed by his willingness to share so much of his knowledge with the public, free of charge. In my book, that bespeaks an uncommon degree of genuine benevolence/humanitarianism -- a rare commodity in this graceless, “Me first!” age of ours.

    I'd like to plug my friend, Bruce (for a roundeye, he knows more about Chinese medicine, acupuncture, etc. than anyone else I've ever met), but he's a private, retiring kind of guy. Maybe someday I'll convince him to let me throw some business his way...  

     Take care, y'all. 

Go Tell the Spartans...

     ….That the machairai have arrived.
    
     I’ve noticed, of late, that cajolery, wheedling, and bribery are as essential to a happy marriage as trust, honesty, and shared values.
     A few weeks ago, I developed a hankering for a new “beater” sword. I was hell-bent on buying one, but as Maggie and I exercise joint control over the finances, neither of us purchases anything (aside from incidentals) without the other’s consent.
    My opportunity arose when the poorly manufactured storm door we installed shortly after we married gave up the ghost. Whilst hanging the new one, we noticed that we were shit out of 1/8” drill bits. This necessitated a trip to Home Depot, wherein I spotted several 24” pine rounds. Now there was no way in hell I was gonna pass up pre-cut buckler blanks, and since they were only four dollars and a few cents each (thereby qualifying as incidentals) I grabbed two and paid for them out of my beer money.
     “What are those for, Jeff?”
     “Shields. One for each of us.”
     “Cool! But we only have the bokken and the two-handers. Won’t we need new swords?”
    
     Heh heh heh…. Bump, set, and spike. Don’t mess with the Irish, boys and girls. We’re crafty bastards.
    
     Well, they arrived a few days ago, and I’m quite pleased with them. Overall length is 27” The steel is very thick (nearly ¼” along the spine), a bit blade-heavy (a good feature in a slashing weapon), and the edges were surprisingly functional for “beaters.” Out of the box, they’re quite capable of splitting durians, watermelons, etc., and I’m almost reluctant to grind ‘em flat. I'm halfway tempted to leave them as they are, and reserve them for use on the hacking post. 
     Appearance-wise, they’re exact copies of the swords employed by Leonidas and his Lacedaemonian loverboys (if we're gonna glorify the Spartans, we might as well accept 'em as they really were, right?) in the film 300. Although I have all sorts of problems with the movie (I loathe historical inaccuracy, but that’s for a future rant), I liked the swords. I’ve been in “classical mode” for the last year or so, and as it happened, these were the only quasi-Greek swords on the market that were cheap enough to risk ruining whilst dressing up and playing soldier – or “hoplite,” if you prefer. (And pardon my catch-all use of the term machaira, but if it was good enough for St. Paul, it’s good enough for me. Besides, you sure as hell wouldn’t accuse either of these of being a kopis or xiphos, now would you?) 

The Further Adventures of Young Doctor Kildare

    Like women, we Celts are more renowned for physical attractiveness and high-spiritedness than for abstract intelligence. As the photo below illustrates, I became a wee bit overenthusiastic whilst hand-conditioning. Things went smoothly until I began working the backfist (uraken), at which point the demon of overzealousness reared its ugly head. 

     Part of the problems was Yours Truly (hitting too damned hard), and part was the equipment: the bag is just too damned old. The contents have settled, and it's time to refill it. Essentially, I wound up hitting a cinderblock covered by a mere two layers of canvas with the knuckles, while the back of the hand smacked the bunched-up contents of the bag. 



     I didn't notice anything amiss until two hours later. I'd gone upstairs, slapped a disc of Schubert into the ghetto blaster, and was  reading a book on Graeco-Roman art shortly after my workout. Predictably, I fell asleep. When I awoke, I noticed a fairly nasty bruise forming on the back of my hand. 

     Here comes the surprise. The bruise you see is less than 24 hours old. Note that it's in a rather advanced state of healing. This is because of a true marvel of modern medical science: raw ginger root. I cut two thick slices from a fresh, juicy root, lightly crushed them, and gently massaged the juice into the boo-boo. 

    The ginger works miracles by itself, but is even more effective when used in combination with dit da jow (for which I'll post a recipe in due time). Assuming that you don't have a traditional Chinese pharmacy in your neck of the woods, you can enhance the effectiveniss of the remedy by putting the root in a mortar, along with a little fresh turmeric root (available at all Oriental groceries and most farmers' markets) and black pepper, grinding them, and making a poultice of the resultant paste. The combination of ginger and turmeric is even more effective than ginger alone, but I wouldn't recommend it to battered wives: the turmeric, while healing the bruise, leaves vivid, yellow stains on the skin. 

Although this should go without saying, do not apply and of the aforementioned preparations diectly to broken skin -- unless you mean to practice your kiai as well. 

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.