Monday, August 15, 2005
It was a delightful weekend, all things considered. There were normal things, like playing of the video games and playing of the drums and writing and running and training and the like. All of that falls under the default heading of ‘awesome’. When I say I hung around at my apartment all weekend, that doesn’t mean I was bored.
Course, I didn’t stay in all weekend. I got to go out and meet T’s fiancé. They’d been dating about three weeks when they decided to get married. Evidently they knew each other for a few months previous, but that's still pretty quick. They’re going through marriage counseling, though, so that’s good, and they probably won’t be able to actually be married until next year. A bit rapid, perhaps, but it’s not my marriage. I met the guy; he seemed like a forthright, respectable, genuinely good kinda chap, so all I can do is wish my best. And I did.
I also went out to M’s birthday party, which happened at Union Cattle, a bar down near Hermosa Beach that has two things going for it:
1) It’s freakin huge!
2) They’ve got a mechanical bull.
We got M all liquored up and put her up on the bull, which was good fun for all, and a bunch of her friends went on it too. Some of them were wearing skirts. I’ll let you think that one through on your own. I went up too, and lasted about 30 seconds (they start you off slow and then speed you up.) That seemed about par for most of the casual bull-riding guys up there. I did see a few, though, that had obviously done it before, and some people were really good.
It was a great weekend, but a pretty nondescript one, so instead, storytime!
* * * *
I thought I’d told this story to pretty much everyone I know, but I came to realize this Sunday that my own Parents hadn’t heard it, so perhaps it is not quite as widespread as I would have liked to think. It’s the story that I tell whenever anyone asks me whether or not I’ve ever used the martial arts.
“Yes,” I say, “once I used it to stop a truck.”
Think about that while I tell the story.
I was driving to the airport to pick up my dad from an inbound flight one weekend while I was spending the summer up in Juneau. I was still pretty new at the martial arts, I don’t think I’d even settled on TKD yet, and I know I was taking Shorin-Ryu Karate at a dojo up there just to try some new things out.
We have several vehicles in our family, the least of which is the truck. We got the truck from my Dad’s father, who probably bought it when he was 2, if its state of repair is any indication. It runs all right, but it’s always sketchy, doesn’t run at all in the winter, and is quite temperamental. In order to turn it on, you stick in the key…okay, for one you don’t stick in the key, because it’s always in the ignition. If someone were to steal it that would probably be okay with us. We probably wouldn’t notice for a couple of months, either. But you step on the brake, shift the truck out of park, turn the key, and when you shift the truck back into park, the truck will, hopefully, cough and sputter its way to a start.
I’ve had some other issues with the truck, too. For one, the gearshift is pretty sticky, and the little needle doesn’t quite point at the gear the truck is actually in, so you might think the truck is in drive, but it isn’t. You gotta jiggle it a bit. Once it died on me while on the way to do…something. I was out by the Ferry Terminal, probably about 1.5 miles from the house, and it just sputtered, hacked, and died. I had to jog back to the house, report to my parents that the errand was a lost cause, and then call up a tow service to get the truck fixed. While they were servicing it, they discovered that gasoline had been dripping onto the engine. I suppose I should be happy the thing didn’t just blow up on me. Oh, and it’s yellow. It was probably a more ‘royal’ color of yellow back in it’s prime, but now its got the same pale yellow tint as, say, cheap beer.
It’s an old truck, that’s all I’m saying.
So I’m taking the old truck to pick up my dad from the airport, and I have to stop at the parking lot to get a ticket. It’s one of those deals where you have to push a button, grab your ticket, and then drive past the little arm as it raises up. Upon reaching this junction, however, I remember another one of the trucks little quirks: the windows don’t roll down anymore. So I realize I’m going to have to park the truck, jump out, grab my ticket and then drive under the arm real quick. It’s a slow arm, though, and I’m quick enough, so I figure I should be able to slide my way through. So I put the truck in park, get out of the cab, close the door, and am taking the step or two over to the ticket dispenser when I realize, to my dismay that the truck isn’t quite in park. It’s not really even a little in park. In fact, it appears to be in reverse. And rolling.
Here comes the martial arts part, you ready?
Karate reflexes well in hand, I dash back to the cab, execute an inside-outside block to open up the door and, while still in front stance (and with excellent form, I might add), I punch the brake. I jiggle the gear box a bit, get it in park, and manage to pick up my dad without further incident.
There you go. That’s using the martial arts, right there, and probably in the most perfect way I could have. What do I mean? Allow me to explain in parable.
“Three students of the martial arts are gathered and asked a question. How do you open a locked door?”
“The while belt student says: ‘I don’t know, but I would like to learn.’”
“The black belt student says: ‘I execute a side-kick next to the door handle, where the wood is weakest.’”
“The master says: ‘I knock.’”
-N
Course, I didn’t stay in all weekend. I got to go out and meet T’s fiancé. They’d been dating about three weeks when they decided to get married. Evidently they knew each other for a few months previous, but that's still pretty quick. They’re going through marriage counseling, though, so that’s good, and they probably won’t be able to actually be married until next year. A bit rapid, perhaps, but it’s not my marriage. I met the guy; he seemed like a forthright, respectable, genuinely good kinda chap, so all I can do is wish my best. And I did.
I also went out to M’s birthday party, which happened at Union Cattle, a bar down near Hermosa Beach that has two things going for it:
1) It’s freakin huge!
2) They’ve got a mechanical bull.
We got M all liquored up and put her up on the bull, which was good fun for all, and a bunch of her friends went on it too. Some of them were wearing skirts. I’ll let you think that one through on your own. I went up too, and lasted about 30 seconds (they start you off slow and then speed you up.) That seemed about par for most of the casual bull-riding guys up there. I did see a few, though, that had obviously done it before, and some people were really good.
It was a great weekend, but a pretty nondescript one, so instead, storytime!
* * * *
I thought I’d told this story to pretty much everyone I know, but I came to realize this Sunday that my own Parents hadn’t heard it, so perhaps it is not quite as widespread as I would have liked to think. It’s the story that I tell whenever anyone asks me whether or not I’ve ever used the martial arts.
“Yes,” I say, “once I used it to stop a truck.”
Think about that while I tell the story.
I was driving to the airport to pick up my dad from an inbound flight one weekend while I was spending the summer up in Juneau. I was still pretty new at the martial arts, I don’t think I’d even settled on TKD yet, and I know I was taking Shorin-Ryu Karate at a dojo up there just to try some new things out.
We have several vehicles in our family, the least of which is the truck. We got the truck from my Dad’s father, who probably bought it when he was 2, if its state of repair is any indication. It runs all right, but it’s always sketchy, doesn’t run at all in the winter, and is quite temperamental. In order to turn it on, you stick in the key…okay, for one you don’t stick in the key, because it’s always in the ignition. If someone were to steal it that would probably be okay with us. We probably wouldn’t notice for a couple of months, either. But you step on the brake, shift the truck out of park, turn the key, and when you shift the truck back into park, the truck will, hopefully, cough and sputter its way to a start.
I’ve had some other issues with the truck, too. For one, the gearshift is pretty sticky, and the little needle doesn’t quite point at the gear the truck is actually in, so you might think the truck is in drive, but it isn’t. You gotta jiggle it a bit. Once it died on me while on the way to do…something. I was out by the Ferry Terminal, probably about 1.5 miles from the house, and it just sputtered, hacked, and died. I had to jog back to the house, report to my parents that the errand was a lost cause, and then call up a tow service to get the truck fixed. While they were servicing it, they discovered that gasoline had been dripping onto the engine. I suppose I should be happy the thing didn’t just blow up on me. Oh, and it’s yellow. It was probably a more ‘royal’ color of yellow back in it’s prime, but now its got the same pale yellow tint as, say, cheap beer.
It’s an old truck, that’s all I’m saying.
So I’m taking the old truck to pick up my dad from the airport, and I have to stop at the parking lot to get a ticket. It’s one of those deals where you have to push a button, grab your ticket, and then drive past the little arm as it raises up. Upon reaching this junction, however, I remember another one of the trucks little quirks: the windows don’t roll down anymore. So I realize I’m going to have to park the truck, jump out, grab my ticket and then drive under the arm real quick. It’s a slow arm, though, and I’m quick enough, so I figure I should be able to slide my way through. So I put the truck in park, get out of the cab, close the door, and am taking the step or two over to the ticket dispenser when I realize, to my dismay that the truck isn’t quite in park. It’s not really even a little in park. In fact, it appears to be in reverse. And rolling.
Here comes the martial arts part, you ready?
Karate reflexes well in hand, I dash back to the cab, execute an inside-outside block to open up the door and, while still in front stance (and with excellent form, I might add), I punch the brake. I jiggle the gear box a bit, get it in park, and manage to pick up my dad without further incident.
There you go. That’s using the martial arts, right there, and probably in the most perfect way I could have. What do I mean? Allow me to explain in parable.
“Three students of the martial arts are gathered and asked a question. How do you open a locked door?”
“The while belt student says: ‘I don’t know, but I would like to learn.’”
“The black belt student says: ‘I execute a side-kick next to the door handle, where the wood is weakest.’”
“The master says: ‘I knock.’”
-N
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