Green Hell

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

Training Notes (8/11/14)

     This month’s featured body part is the shoulders. Owing to the vagaries of genetics, it’s a relatively easy phase for me (a friend of mine joked that if I wasn't careful, my head would end up looking like a mung bean perched atop a shoebox), but I think I deserve a break once in a while  -- especially as my next phase focuses on legs (read: “Hell on Earth”).
      Since the eight-week cycles were too grueling, I’ve cut back to four weeks per targeted group. The workouts, once again, are staggered, to the end of hitting the group from different angles.

Weeks 1 & 3                                                                Weeks 2 & 4   
Squat (3 x 8-10)                                                         Squat (3 x 8-10)
Inverted Row (3 sets, to failure)                                 Bent Row (3 x 8-10)
Bench Press (3 x 8-10)                                               Bench Press (3 x 8-10)
*Military Press (3 x 8-10)                                          *Press Behind Neck (3 x 8-10) 
*Lateral Raise (3 x 8-10)                                           *Bent Lateral Raise (3 x 8-10)
*Upright Row (3 x 8-10)                                            *Upright Row (3 x 8-10) 
*Forward Raise (3 x 8-10)                                         *Forward Raise (3 x 8-10)
Curl (3 x 8-10)                                                          Curl (3 x 8-10)
Dumbbell Kickback (strip set, to failure)                     Triceps Press (3 x 8-10)

     Once again, exercises marked with an asterisk are supersets: proceed directly from one to the next, but take a two-minute rest between pairs. Owing to pre-exhaustion, I found it necessary to reduce the poundage on the curls and triceps presses by 10% in order to complete an acceptable number of reps, but that’s nothing to worry about.

     And the playlist, of course:

So What? – Anti Nowhere League
Who Killed Bambi? – Ten Pole Tudor
No One is Innocent – Sex Pistols w/ Ronnie Biggs
When the Man Comes Around – Johnny Cash
Copperhead Road – Steve Earle
Supernova – Liz Phair
Tarzan Boy -- Baltimora
Mrs. Robinson (cover) – Lemonheads
Sharpshooter – Motorhead
Symphony of Destruction – Megadeth
I Hate Myself for Loving You (Kick Ass II version) – Joan Jett
Too Drunk to Fuck – Dead Kennedys
Holiday in Cambodia – Dead Kennedys
The American Way – Hank Williams, Jr.
L.A. Woman – The Doors

     Interesting. I've noticed that the playlists that motivate me the most change with my moods. The Black/Thrash/Death Metal bit just wasn't doing it for me this week, so I went kinda retro.
     I'm always giving my wife a ration of shit for listening to disco (she's a bit older than I am), and I suppose it was her turn to sneer at me for once. "Tarzan Boy" in particular earned more than its due in terms of her ridicule. 
    "Oh, my God! That is so stupid!"
     Yeah, right. And I suppose the lyrics of "More, More, More" were written by a latter-day Lord Fuckin' Byron... 

Heavy Metal and Chinese Pecker Potions

     Earlier in the week, I took a trip to my favorite Asian market, in order to load up on the things that make life worth living: seaweed, shrimp paste, nuoc mam, fermented tofu, palm and rice vinegars, elephant’s trunk chiles (a hornworm made short work of mine), and, of course, ginseng. Unfortunately, the market was out of my usual brand. The unexpected development left me saddled with this stuff:

      I wasn’t happy about having to forego my product of choice, but I decided to make the best of the situation. Besides, I couldn’t help getting a kick out of the clumsy translation on the box-top. “Men’s Erotic Tonic,” fer feck’s sake? It sounds like the kind of snake oil various unscrupulous, fly-by-night companies used to advertise in the back pages of cheap porno mags during the late ‘80s and early ‘90s!
    
     When I arrived home, I explained what had transpired to my wife, and showed her the package. She had one look at the label, and without missing a beat, rolled her eyes and groaned “Oh, my God!”




     Before I continue, let me state for the record that if you’re searching for the secret of eternal youth, or even for aphrodisiacs, you’re reading the wrong blog. I understand that various modern, prescription drugs can enhance libido in males and females, as can hormone therapy. As, however, I’d prefer not to experience ten-hour hard-ons and/or acromegaly a few years down the road, I’ll stick to natural supplements, thankee kindly.  As for you would-be Ponce de Leons: How long do you really want to live on this fucking Irrenhaus of a planet?

      Anyway, I’ve had decent luck with the Royal King brand. The specific product I prefer consists of 8000mg of ginseng extract in a mix of water, honey, and alcohol – and nothing else. That, along with 5mg of boron a day, and regular doses of the wolfberry stew recipe I posted a few weeks ago is as exotic as I get.
     Reputable clinical studies on the effects of boron on muscle-building are inconclusive, by the way, so beware any claims you may read in bodybuilding rags or on snake-oil websites. It has been shown to increase testosterone production in rats, but it’s hardly the steroid substitute the fast-buck crowd would have you believe.  The combination seems to be working, though – sometimes a little too well. Although I haven’t had a severe depressive episode in months, I’ve noticed a slight increase in both the frequency and intensity of manic/hypomanic episodes, and mildly elevated aggression/excitability, as well. 
    Regarding other supplements: I tried creatine last year, but quickly kissed it off -- the gains in strength and endurance weren’t worth the constipation, water-retention, etc. In my opinion, the stuff is vastly overrated. I do take vitamin and mineral supplements to make up for deficiencies in the local soil, but they’re strictly over-the-counter – nothing I’d have to break the bank ordering from a catalog or buying from some larcenous specialty shop. I also take Five Hour Energy -- because I need the B-vitamins, but hate swallowing any more pills than I have to.
 
     I’d love nothing more than to find a fitness product that actually worked as advertised, but most of ‘em don’t.  And they’re all overpriced. Where’s the sense in squandering $2.50 on a protein bar (soy protein, no  less…), a bar which also contains 25% of the recommended daily allowance of fat, when I can obtain twice as much protein -- and far less fat --from a $0.79 can of tuna? If I wanted soy protein (and I don’t – Buddhist monks eat it as a celibacy-aid for a good reason: soy contains phytoestrogens) I could purchase a block of tofu for $0.99, thereby taking in 28g of protein, roughly 50% of the recommended daily allowance, and practically no fat.
     Sorry, guys. I can’t shill your products: there are cheaper and tastier ways of getting the nutrients I need.   

     This brings us back to the “pecker potion.” I wish they’d list the exact proportions of the ingredients, but I gather that like Yunnan Bai Yao (truly amazing stuff!), the exact formula is a closely guarded secret.
     Here’s the rollout, in addition to the ginseng. According to my well-worn copy of Materia Medica, the ingredients perform as follows:

     Indian mulberry (Morinda officinalis): Acts on the kidney meridian, tonifies kidney yang, supplements essence.
 
     Fleeceflower (Polygonum multiflorum): Acts on liver and kidney meridians, nourishes blood and yin, conserves essence.

     Wild Yam (Dioscorea opposita): Acts on the kidney, lung, and spleen meridians, tonifies qi and yin of all three, secures essence.
  
     Licorice (Glycerrhizia uralensis & related species): Acts on all twelve channels, tonifies spleen qi, moistens lungs, drains fire.

     Szechuan Lovage (Ligusticum chuanxiong): Acts on the liver, gallbladder, and pericardium meridians. Invigorates blood, promotes movement of qi.

     All of which makes perfect sense, if you’re into Chinese medicine. The simple combination of morinda and ginseng is a commonplace remedy for impotence. Fleeceflower, mulberry, wild yam, and licorice likewise affect the kidney meridian, which governs sexual functions. Ginseng is called the “King of Herbs” for a very good reason –it does damn-near everything. Licorice enters all twelve meridians, and boosts the effectiveness of the other ingredients. It’s also worth noting (and this is extremely “woo-woo”) that the ingredients neatly follow the “generative line” of the Taoist Five-Element theory, each organ-energy supplementing/supporting the next.

    I just bought it for the ginseng… I’m no more and no less of an oversexed horndog than usual, but I’m reasonably sure that if the “Celtic tiger” ever has trouble shaking his tail, this stuff’ll set him right in no time. I’ve had good luck with Chinese medicine so far…

    What else? Oh yeah!
    I spent the last two staggered, four-week cycles specializing on the chest. The workouts were as follows:

     Weeks 1, 3, 5, 7                                       Weeks 2, 4, 6, 8
     Squat (3 x10)                                            Squat (3 x 10)
     Inverted Row (3 sets to failure)                  Bent Row (3 x 10)
    *Bench Press (3 x 10)                                 *Bench Press (3 x 10)
    *Straight-arm Pullover (3 x 10)                   *Straight-Arm Pullover (3 x 10)
    *Incline Bench Press (3 x 10)                       *Incline Bench Press (3 x 10)
    *Dumbbell Fly (3 x 10 )                                *Dumbbell Fly (3 x 10)
     Military Press (3 x 10 )                                Press Behind Neck (3 x 10)
     Curl (3 x10)                                              Curl (3 x 10)
     Triceps Press (3 x 10)                               Dumbbell Kickback (strip-sets, to failure)

    Exercises marked with an asterisk are pairs of super-sets: one performed right after another, with no rest in between, followed by a two-minute rest per super-set.
     Oh, and the week’s playlist, of course.

“Unsung” – Helmet
“In Your Letter” – REO Speedwagon
“(With Your Life) You’ll Pay for This” -- Tank
“Reign of Thunder” – Tank
“Into Crypts of Rays” – Celtic Frost
“Killing Machine” – Judas Priest
“Take it on the Run” – REO Speedwagon
“Schism” – Tool
“(Don’t You) Forget About Me” – Simple Minds
“Seek and Destroy” – Metallica
“The Hunter” – Girlschool
“Blue Turk” – Alice Cooper
“Scarred for Life” – Rose Tattoo
"Fat Lip" - Sum 41
"EMI" - Sex Pistols
"Friggin' in the Riggin'" - Sex Pistols (This one's worth watching as well as listening to. The video is just so wrong, it's irresistible.)
"Kiss my Irish Ass" - Flogging Molly


     Gimme a fuckin' break, willl ya? Ya don't expect me to pump iron whilst listening to Kitaro or Steve Hillage, do ya? 

     G'night.

    Note:The post from the 20^th was the product of manic moment. I still think it was funny in a crude, juvenile, locker-roomish way, though: “Tell P.J. that T.J. gave D.J. a B.J – which D.J. did repay, posthaste, with a C.J.” Heh heh heh…. 

Gettin Medieval on Yo' Ass

Here's one for y'all to check out.

He's a bro of mine from "across the pond," and he takes his sharp, pointy objects very seriously.

His site has the "Green Hell Seal of Approval."

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.