Attack Dogs, Cover Bands, and a Reason to Avoid "Short Cuts"

Edit - Not sure why everyone is thinking that this is fiction, but it is not.  This was a story that happened when I was living in China, Spring 2007

I had taken to doing my drinking at the Holiday Inn.  Unlike Bar Street, with its Christmas-style decorations, music play-lists of which half were Chinese Pop and half were the most obnoxious of American Rap, the Holiday Inn was a place apart, a taxi ride away, and it boasted an impressive cover band made up of two beautiful Filipino singers.  There were typically a few expats at the bar, sipping Remy Martin and flirting comfortably with both the singers and the half-dozen or so working girls who would stake out their respective territories.  It was easy for a newcomer to mistake the girls as normal bar patrons (friendly ones), until one would notice that they were always in the same place every night.  It was unclear if there was a professional alliance that they would follow, each responsible for a certain area of the bar, or if the geography was hard-fought battleground, with the more ruthless earning her position as the industry's representative at the pool tables, while a less aggressive younger sister might be relegated to plying her trade among the back section closest to the singers.

In any case, it was a nice change from the noise and chaos of the more central party areas in Zhuhai, China, and you were almost assured of not getting food poisoning there.  The music was quite good actually, both female vocalists had excellent voices, and the guitar player would go on impressive solo riffs now and again, even on American songs who's original did not call for them.

One particular night, capacity for objective thought impaired by an unknown quantity of San Miguel beer and the short skirts of the Filipino singers, I considered my available cash.  I could reward myself for a week well-done with a massage at the upstairs parlor, or I could be driven safely home by a waiting taxi.  This would ensure that I not become the latest drunken expat mugged and beaten in an abandoned alley as I staggered home.

Fifteen minutes later, I was being rubbed down by an exotic beauty in a short skirt.  As I had paid for a 30 minute session, I used the time to rifle through my 15 word lexicon of Cantonese to determine if I knew how to say either "happy" or "ending," or any similar variation.  I did not, and I grumbled bitterly that classrooms never teach you anything "practical."  I was loathe to use any hand gestures to indicate what was required here, so I just thanked her for her time, and wandered into the dark Zhuhai night.  It was probably 3am.

I considered my options, and concluded that they were quite limited.  Home was approximately three miles away.  As the car drives, I would need to follow the main road straight to the coast, and then turn right (south), to get to my apartment.  At least three miles.  Still half-stupid from strong drink, I decided on blazing a new path, taking side streets and alleys in a diagonal fashion, cutting off what I expected would be significant amounts of time.  I had forgotten that unknown short cuts are never short cuts.

The city was mostly quiet, save for small groups of men huddled around dice games on porches and stairways, surrounded by bottles of cheap liquor.  Usually the conversation would stop as I walked by, continuing only after I had passed.  I pulled the hoody up over my head to avoid the instant recognition as a foreigner, but it took away my peripheral vision, and probably drew even more attention to myself.  I pulled it back down as I entered yet another dark alley, and was immediately conscious of a dozen dark and silent shapes streaking towards me.

Dogs defending their territory in the U.S. will usually bark ferociously, warning the intruder back and away from the geography that they consider "theirs."  This pack had apparently decided that my intrusion was too significant  to forgive, and launched a surprise attack where no mercy or mere "lesson" would suffice.  The utter silence of the mangy dogs was far more terrifying than a snarl or loud bark would have been.  I turned to face them, roaring English obscenities which surely meant nothing to them.  Surprised by my aggression, the lead dogs faltered, turned back a few steps, and then remembered that they held a huge advantage in numbers.  They immediately turned back to attack, rushing towards me.  Not ten feet away, a loud command was yelled from somewhere in the darkness of the alley that they had come from, and they immediately halted their onslaught, retreating back the way they came.

I realized that I had been holding my breath, and let it out in a violent expulsion of air.  Turning quickly, I walked on.

An hour later, I was realizing that my short cut was not one, and I was turned around in the maze of dilapidated buildings.  Somewhere up ahead of me, I heard a loud and mournful baying, like some massive hound of the baskervilles.  "More dogs," I thought sadly.  Not trusting my ability to find my way back, I continued on towards the sound.  Sitting on a stoop, a middle-aged man howled at the moon.  He looked at me, and I looked at him, and he turned back to the sky to resume his wailing.  I took a deep breath.  It was time to get home.

Eventually, I found a major street, which I recognized as one a good mile further south than I should have been, and followed it to my apartment.  It was 5am when I walked in the door and collapsed on my unmade bed.

Go Slow

Several times a day over the last few weeks, I have unconsciously stopped what I was doing just to sit and think.

The fact is, I am inspired.  I am also happy.  The books that I am reading, the ideas that I am thinking, the dreams that I am dreaming, how I am spending my time, what I am choosing to go without, all of it reflects an optimism...a positivity that is new to me.

I am pleased with my progress, and I see the potential for further improvements without being in a rush to get there.  I am taking things slower, not rushing through an enjoyable activity just to get to the next item on my to-do list.  When I talk to someone in person or on the phone, I am present.  I do not multi-task, splitting my attention between the conversation and the TV or computer or any other shiny distraction.

Every day, I am reminding myself to move slow and make sure that I enjoy the ride.

The Great Book-Burning of 2010

I have been reading about the social movements of simplicity, minimalism and frugality lately.  The most influential book on the subject has been "The Circle of Simplicity," by Cecile Andrews, and was recommended to me by the Momma.

I was initially drawn to these ideas as a way to save money, but it has become quite a bit more than that.  I have always had a bit of distaste for the idea of shopping as a "hobby," and I never considered myself someone who had much of a need for "things."  After being inspired to go through all of my stuff and considering where I can reduce, I realize I am almost as guilty of consumerism as the girl with 20 pairs of shoes in her closet.  I just have different things that I spend money on.  Specifically, my search turned up four different pairs of boxing gloves, three different sets of sparring head gear, a pair of snow-shoes that I have used once, a snowboard that I have used once, a microwave that I never use, and most obvious, hundreds of books that I will not be reading again.

Getting rid of the books caused the most heartache.  I like having lots of books because it does good things for my self-esteem. 

See all those books?  Obviously, I am a learned and well-educated fellow, someone who probably has all sorts of interesting things to talk about.

I finally came to the realization that keeping all these books did not make those statements true or untrue.  If I read them, then I read them, and I do not need to keep them there as trophies to impress others (or myself.)  I was able to sell about 15 of them to a used bookstore for $40 (which really shows how much of a waste of money new books are), and most of the rest are going to be donated to my local library.  I am keeping one large shelf full of books that I have either not read yet or have not yet finished.  I will give myself until the end of the year, and then will get rid of anything that remains.

There are some books that I am keeping forever.  Some are very important to me, and I will be reading them again and again.  Others have good information or quotes in them that I often use for reference.  These will be spared.  More than anything, I am attempting to reduce the hold these objects have on me.  They are NOT symbols of my intelligence, nor an indicator of my worth.  They are only valuable for the information and stories within their pages, and I can access them for free at the library (almost) any time that I want.  Obviously, what comes with this purging is an emphasis on not buying new books to replace these in the future. 

Reducing the amount of things that I own allows me to refocus on people and experiences instead of material objects.  I think that I do this more than most already, but I can absolutely improve. 

I found it interesting, but I have been trying to define what living a "rugged life" means lately, and I have several drafts that haven't quite felt right.  Then I read this: "[Focusing on experience is] the core of the spiritual life - it is awe, wonder, and delight.  It is the path that brings us a feeling of life, the rekindling of our spirit, the sense of being on fire with excitement about life."

Sounds about right to me.

Martin's Bitching Bison & Blue Cheese Burgers

Summer is here, so it is time to heat up the BBQ, crack a beer, and ogle the women.

Here is my low-carb version of Bison Burgers, high in protein and good fats, while keeping the sugars down where they should be.

Ingredients

1 LB Ground Bison
1.5 ounces Blue Cheese Crumbles
0.5 t Worchestshire sauce
0.5 t Fresh ground pepper
0.5 t Salt
1 Habanero (diced)
1 T Spicy Mustard
* Mix these items together into burger paste and let sit in the refridgerator for 1-2 hours.

1. Heat coals while slicing up sweet pickles, peeling large lettuce leaves, cutting up banana peppers, slicing cherry tomatoes, and cutting up onion slices.
2. Grill burger patties 5-6 minutes per side or until well done.
3. The large romaine lettuce leaves serve as the bun, so lay the finished patty on a leaf.
4. Add fixin's
5. Take a smaller leaf and lay over the top
6. NOM NOM NOM

Macro-nutrient Profile (based on 4oz Patty)

Fat: 20g
Carbohydrates: 5g (stay away from ketchup or BBQ sauce, or this will go way up)
Protein: 33g

Preemptive Disclaimer - I realize that A) worrying about one's diet, and B) having pretty flowers on your dining table may not qualify as "rugged."  I know...I KNOW.

The Part where I am Stabbed by a Masai Spear

It was a good week.  The apparel and textile production "busy" season is officially over, and I was able to take a few deep breaths, leave my apartment, and think about things outside of my profession.  How pleasant.

Actually, it was more than good.  I started training again, this time at the Wild Card Boxing Club of Hollywood.  It is the same gym that Manny Pacquiao trains at when he is in the States, as well as many other world-class amateurs and professionals, and I am learning a lot just from being in close proximity to all of these top-level guys.  I have a good rapport with my new coach, a former world champion in his own right, and a funny dude.  Rumor is, I have "rhythm for a white boy."

Also, I was running on the boardwalk in the evenings, followed by a quick dip in the ocean to catch some waves via body surfing.  I would then watch the sun go down while sitting on the beach and thinking deep and inspiring thoughts, such as "what should I make for dinner," and "that girl is pretty hot."

Never trust too much good stuff at one time.  After being inspired by The Art of Manliness's post on Man Caves, I decided that I must have one.  I immediately set to, rearranging furniture out of and into my spare bedroom, putting up vintage boxing posters, and stocking it with bourbon and other necessities.

Years ago, my Grandma Bev had brought me back a Masai spear from her trip to Kenya.  It was a perfect accent to my man-cave-in-progress, and I had set it on the ground while determining a good place for it.  It was at this point that I tripped, falling forward and kicking the sharp end of the killing device.  With one edge firmly planted against the wall, the business end stabbed through the meaty part of my foot at a 45 degree angle.  I had propelled myself forward with so much force that the end against the wall embedded itself at least a quarter inch deep into the drywall.  I didn't look how deep it had gone into my foot, but it took a long time to pull it all the way out.  Sure enough, the metal blade was completely rusted over.  Tetanus shots, joy!

I found an Urgent Care Center that was still open, and they stuck needles in me, gave me antibiotics, and a candy for being such a good patient.

Now I am limping along with a hole in my foot, a sore arm, and flu-like symptoms as a reaction to all the medication.  However, I got to do some fishing off a dock with my brother today, and while I caught a perch and a stingray, he didn't catch shit but seaweed. 

Overall, a good week.