Knife defense

I think I finally mastered the knife disarm!

Self defense seems so imprecise to me…the attacker will never be in the same exact position that you’ve practiced, so much of defense, I feel, is improvised on the spot. Since I dislike improvising anything (can’t everything come with an instruction manual?) I struggle with all the “what ifs” (especially, when it comes to things like “what if I miss in disarming him?”).

But I think I’ve finally gotten both the concept and the moves behind a simple knife disarm. This marks the first real success I’ve had in self-defense.

Fat and Gassy

How can we save a billion gallons of gas yearly? Stop being so fat.

According to EcoGeek.org (this post), the average American is 24 pounds more unhealthy than we were in the 1970s (and that’s on AVERAGE!). Like the proverbial spare tire, more energy is needed to move this blob around. More energy=more gasoline. Sounds like a simple equation. Just by losing that average 24 pounds (geez if I lost 24 pounds I’d be 5′6″ and 100 pounds- ew I’d be a skeleton!) we can save a BILLION GALLONS of gas! And then maybe my gas would be less expensive.

Although certainly an unfair and morally questionable tactic, a fat tax sounds more and more appealing the more I read stories like this.

This was a great article, not only because of the fat angle, but also because I read hundreds of environmental sites a month, many of which offer gas-saving tips, but this is one of the more creative one’s I’ve seen. Check them out.

A Good Wife

Many of you may have seen this image. My high school English class had to analyze it for a project. It’s spread wide over the internet. It reflects the values of the 1950s. What do you think about it?

If you can’t see the image below, here is the link.

Now, good ol’ Wikipedia says that this article is false, but I’m not totally convinced. Regardless, many people’s immediate reaction is one of disgust and vehement condemnation. But it just so happens that I’m not so sure we should condemn it outright.

I will grant you off the bat that only about the first 10 or so are morally acceptable; some of the latter ones border on the immoral and distrustful (out all night? where’s he going, anyway?).
However, many of these suggestions are totally wonderful and beautiful, if done as a result of love. I mean, “Be happy to see him”…shouldn’t you? Clean up before he comes home, make him comfortable, clean the brats up, have dinner ready…what is so wrong with this? My best friend CBM has a grandfather who every single day, whether he came from work or just sat around the house all day, showered and dressed up for dinner. I love that idea; it makes dinnertime special, and makes everyone else feel special too. I can imagine myself cleaning up the house, the kids, and myself just before my husband gets home. I don’t like being dirty, or having my house be dirty; why should I subject my husband to it if I can take half an hour to tidy up? It gives me so much joy to think of serving my husband in this way.

I propose a modern adaptation of this idea. What should a totally in love wife do for her husband? What should she do even when she doesn’t feel quite so in love? What selfless duties come with the job of wifehood, that are admirable virtues if practiced with patience?

It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your dobok

Whew! Hot stuff, this martial art. So hot that I nearly fainted last night during class (darkness was closing in around the peripherals of my vision and boy did I feel weak). When we were doing assisted leg lifts, I was underneath M (my friend, the new student! more on him later), who was dripping sweat on me. Big, wet drops splashing. Gross!

Fortunately we will soon be able to wear our summer uniform, which is our pants with a school T-shirt.

Warm tits

Dear British friends,

I was greatly amused by the article entitled “Great tits cope well with warming” which your government-sponsored news agency, the BBC, had written. I had to click the link, as you had already awakened my Freudian subconscious. To my great disappointment, I was not treated to scientific information about my genetic mammary disposition. Rather, I learned that you will have at least one bird around in the hot future to defecate on your shiny new electric cars.

On the other hand, as your website is well connected, I imagine it will score high today on the Google search for “tits”. Perhaps you will have given the mind-numbed porn addict a bit of zoological edification, teaching them about animals of a different sort. I understand that as a government entity, the BBC is attempting to be a moral compass for society; although perhaps not intended in this case, I applaud this beneficial result. Keep up the good work.

Sincerely,

Cathy

Will to Kill

So here’s where it begins to get intense.

Last night we practiced shadow-sparring. We weren’t allowed to hit, hard at least, but we were confined to an 8 foot by 8 foot square on the mat and told basically to go at it. I was against B, a kid of about 13 who is really not so great at TKD, if only due to his complete inability to pay attention during class. He is also often unintentionally provocative, and often tells me “bring it on”.

Let me tell you, it’s been brought.

He was able to touch me several times. But I felt like a whirlwind of energy and totally trounced him. I was in the zone; I really could think of nothing else but kick-punch-kick-kick. Keep your balance. Block. All I could see were his jesting eyes. I never had any intent to hurt him, in fact I think I even laughed a couple of times. But this whole exercise had a startling effect on me. After the exercise we moved on to learning forms, and Mr. C took me aside to teach me Chun-Ji. But while he was talking, it took all of my concentration to not throw a punch or kick at him (which would have been wayy bad, I would have certainly died in short order). It seems that my brain was still in fight mode. This lasted for a good five minutes or so after the shadow-sparring.

This has made me worried for myself. I’ve never been very impulsive, but I’ve also never put my body through such rigorous training. And I’ve never hit someone before. I am worried that when I really start to spar, I might lose control and really hurt someone. I am sure Mr. C. will teach us techniques to keep ourselves in check, but nonetheless, it is a new and disconcerting feeling.

An epic night

Before going to Medieval Times, we went to see “The Forbidden Kingdom” (aren’t I spoiled?), the kung fu movie with Jackie Chan and Jet Li (the hoity-toity reviewers faulted the movie on many accounts, but it was very enjoyable nonetheless). It was the epic story of a young boy who finds himself transported to another kingdom where he has to return a staff that he found in order to save the Monkey King. Although the movie is a bit disney-esque (though made by Lionsgate), I totally identify with this kid. It follows his training from wimpy to warrior under Jackie and Jet’s guidance. He is totally the underdog, and what’s better, it shows a wet-noodle white kid actually mastering kung fu, and thereby becoming a respected teammate worthy of fighting with (and getting the girl). It helps that I’m a young white kid trying to master an asian art too. Me and Michael Angarano could take on the world together.

As if saving that kingdom wasn’t enough, at Medieval Times the prince was kidnapped, the knights jousted, and the evil green knight was vanquished by the returning triumphant prince. Between the two events, I left the mall feeling that good surely will win this war called Life.

Eating with your hands

I’ve got a two-date streak with this guy I’m seeing, and both times we managed to eat without using silverware. On Date 1, we got takeout from Carrabba’s and took it to a park, only to realize much to our dismay there were no packets of utensils in the bags! Trying to make the best of it, and to avoid his embarrassment, I asked for his pocketknife to cut up my manicotti, which I scooped up with bread. That was almost dignifying for myself; but I couldn’t look at him without laughing at his puppy-dog face as he sheepishly nibbled his salad using his hands.

On Date 2, per his suggestion (and to my delight) we went to Medieval Times, the dinner/show. There, as part of the experience, we were told to look at our hands: “Meet your knife and fork for the evening”. Unlike the first date, we felt right at home using our hands to tear apart the half-chicken, spareribs, (so much for my halfhearted attempts at vegetarianism) and potato we were given. I felt something of a euphoria that I can only explain by the added tactile sensation of feeling my food before I ate it. It was as if I had previously been seeing in two dimensions, and finally woke up to 3-D sight. It was primal, yes, but more than that, it felt so right. I wonder if we are doing a disservice to children by teaching them to eat with a knife and fork. Just know, dear readers, that when you’re not looking, there’s a good chance I will be eating with my hands from now on. This must be the beginning of my decidedly unfeminine bad***ness.

The day we’ve all been waiting for…testing day!

I am no longer a white belt!

The test finally arrived. It wasn’t deserving of the finger-tingling, gut-clearing nervousness that I was experiencing all day, but it was still enough to give me a bit of a challenge. Mental, primarily. I tested with a gaggle of children (most under age 10), so there were about a bazillion parents and family watching. Somehow, this didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would. In fact, I imagined that they had a bit of sympathy for me, having to test with children. So with their (imaginary) support, I pretty much did all my forms, kicks, self defense, and required knowledge perfectly. So much so that I got the “Best Tester” award. I am inclined to feel a bit unexcited by this because I was the only one over the age of 16, but since I had given my test up to God (so that if I messed up, I could blame Him), I will satisfy myself with the hope that it glorifies God in some small way.

All in all though, the test rocked! It was pretty fun to show off, even if it was tough to remember my forms. Instead of making me tired, it made me want to go run 3 miles and practice some more to get in better shape. That, I think, is how I know that Tae Kwon Do is my true love.

My last thoughts: A white belt signifies innocence, as that of a beginning student with no knowledge of tae kwon do. Does this mean I’m no longer innocent? That must mean that this is the official beginning of my bad**s-ness.

I Hate Graphic Design

The title says it all, but I want to scream and shout to the hills: I HATE GRAPHIC DESIGN!!!

Which, like many passionate statements I make, is not entirely true. I like it intellectually…I like typography and the detail of each letter. I like creating balance from grouping images, lines, or text. I love looking at posters and CD covers and creative works that other brilliant minds have thought up.

But I hate the act of creating it, the searching a blank mind to desperately come up with a concept that matches the client’s hazy, and often erroneous, vision of what the message should be. I hate mimicking other’s work, but many times clients aren’t open to my own vision of their message, and instead want me to copy that billboard or advertisement they saw that one time. Graphic design, in this sense, is like constantly being censored, and we have to content ourselves with whatever personal flair we manage to slip in. I hate the client most of all, both the ones that are disorganized and clueless and those that are know-it-alls. I HATE the constant revisions and late nights and last minute changes. I hate graphic design because I am awful at it, but as soon as anyone finds out that you know how to use the Adobe software, they instantly are your best friend and ask you to do things for them. I hereby solemnly vow that unless it’s paid or for my own purposes, I will never do any graphic design work ever again.

The context for all of this is that my major in undergrad was graphic design, and I am currently doing work for my Tae Kwon Do school for free. I really wanted to help them out, because they are such awesome people and they give me so much, so I offered to do some postcards for them…but I guess I’ve found the limits to my generosity. I’ve been working on it in all my spare time for over a month, doing innumerable revisions. It seems I can never satisfy them. Is this selfish of me? Should I be more generous of my talents? They have been so kind to me, and say I am practically one of their family. But they also run a business. Am I letting them walk all over me? Should I have asked for money? At this point I’m just doing what I have to to get it done, I’m no longer protesting or trying to actually make them look “good”. I’m doing exactly what they tell me to do. Is this a loss of artistic integrity? All in all, this whole thing has made me a bit bitter, as you can tell from the tirade above. Hopefully I can finish it soon so the bitterness doesn’t color my view of their friendship.