Put up yer dukes

All the recent fuss about this ‘ultimate fighting’ club for kids in Missouri has me thinking about what I’d do if I were a parent. I don’t think punching someone in the nose is the best way to go about solving a problem, but there are cases where it’s warranted. Why, if Sister Superior Mary Benedict hadn’t taught Eddie Breen how to box, Tommy Smith would have continued to bully him and they never would have become best pals, right?

Truth be told, I’ve never been in a fight in my life. And I’ve always wondered about that. Sure, Todd and I got into some pretty good scraps when we were younger, but never with the intention of producing serious bodily injury to each other. I can’t help sometimes but think that I missed out on a rite of passage — it’s not as though I never found myself in a situation where blind rage and flailing fists would have produced a more satisfactory (albeit short-lived) outcome than shrinking away in humiliation, my usual tactic for self-preservation.

And it’s not like I never had the tools to deliver the goods, either. During my sophomore year in high school I studied Tae Kwan-do under Jim Langlas, one of the English teachers at Wheaton-Warrenville High School (now Wheaton-Warrenville South). I learned how to focus all forward energy into explosive punches, deflect oncoming blows, and deliver round-house kicks to lay out any challenger. This was powerful stuff for a skinny 14-year old, and I admit to entertaining fantasies of taking down some jerk-off with a single shot the solar plexis. (What kid hasn’t wanted to bust a kung-fu stance after being pushed to the ground — a warning to his aggressor that he’d just made a very grave error in judgment?) Yes, that would have been sweet. But of course it never happened.

Dr. Langlas taught us the physical skills we needed to defend ourselves but the core value of his training derived from a newfound sense inner strength: knowledge that bred confidence, yet came with responsibility. Think of it as swearing to use your power for good, not evil. And while there is something to be said for this, the fact I was never provoked into unleashing a lightning display of martial arts ass-kickery boils down more to the plain fact that I was just too scared (realistic?) rather than any verisimilitude of keeping my awesome destructiveness at bay because I was the “better man”. I knew I never stood a chance.

In the end I didn’t stick with Tae Kwon-do past my first green stripe. That summer Wheaton-Warrenville was moth-balled and the entire school was divvied up between Wheaton(s) Central and North. I became a Central Tiger and Mr. Langlas a North Falcon. (Boo! Hiss!) I suppose I could have continued my training at the center he ran in West Chicago, but I was never very comfortable with the practice, patterns, rank tests (I suffered from extreme performance anxiety) and all that, though I can see how the structure and personal discipline of it all would appeal to a lot of kids. All I did was go back to sparring with Todd in Ninja Protectors!

Which brings me back to ‘ultimate’ fighting. Now I’m no expert, but it’d be hard to sell me on the idea of sending your kid into a fighting pit with a kill-or-be-killed mentality. Yeah, yeah, yeah, they wear protective gear and whatnot, but what is the message being handed down from parent to child? That by wailing away as hard as you can — with intent to pummel your opponent — you may stand a chance of ‘winning’ and not being called a loser? How can this possibly translate to anything productive in later life? What can we learn about working and living together with other people by beating the shit out of them, because that’s all we know how to do? There’s standing up for yourself and there’s outright cowardly aggression.

To be fair, our parents gave us Socker Boppers one year for Christmas and Todd and I promptly proceeded to sock each other silly, but there was a key difference: while going at it, we were simultaneously laughing our heads off, socking and bopping like a couple of cartoon characters with those over-sized air pillows on our fists (remember how sweaty your hands would get inside?). It wasn’t quite the same as being tossed into a cock-fighting ring with Dad cheering you on from the sidelines.

I can only see this as parental fear and insecurity manifesting itself in yet another perverted childhood arena. To the beauty pageant moms we now add the ultimate fighting dads. I mean, come on. If your kid needs to blow off some steam he or she can lay into a punching bag or a pillow if need be. (Sports, anyone? Hello…?) At least with the martial arts, kids develop a sense of respect for themselves and others and learn that avoiding conflict in the first place is often where the battle is won. Even Eddie Breen fought solely on the grounds of self-defense, and only to the minimum extent that still allowed him to extend an olive branch to Tommy and gain his respect. Wiping the playground with him would only have destroyed Tommy’s reputation and created a monster, a life-long enemy. Gee, I feel as though I’m on the verge of making a deeper connection to something beyond childhood scrapping…

(Jim Langlas’ bio on his new web page. Good to see that he got his PhD but continued to teach in Wheaton public school system all the way up until last year. Come to think of it, Mr. Langlas wasn’t the only PhD teaching high school in Wheaton. I got one hell of an education growing up, which says a lot about the ability of school districts to attract and retain quality teachers.)

(Earlier web site with nice photo of Mr. Langlas — though I can’t believe he still looks that young! But you never know…)

Please, do NOT save Ferris

(First off, if you like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off or keep a special place for it in your heart, don’t take personally what I’m about to say.)

Oh my god, does this movie suck.

I don’t know what inspired me to request it from the library in the first place. (Perhaps it’s the fog of 80’s nostalgia I’ve been trying to negotiate my way out of after watching the entire run of Freaks and Geeks over Christmas vacation.)

I should have known better, too, since I remember not liking the movie back in The Day. Which is odd, too, since in 1986 Ferris had everything going for it that I should have identified with: suburban-Chicago kid in his last year of high school skirts the system to create his own adventure writ large and, in doing so, shows the adults it really is better to be 18, clever, carefree, immoderate, and iconoclastic — rather than submissively get in line to don the “square” mantle of adulthood without so much as a last stand. I mean, that was my life (only off by a year). So why didn’t I buy into it?

Probably because this movie sucks. (And it’s not that I just don’t get it, either, though I’m willing to reconsider. If anyone could forward me a critical review that elucidates some brilliant and subversive sub-text that I’m just not picking up on, please, by all means clue me in.)

Yumi and I suffered through the first 40 minutes before ejecting (both literally and figuratively). I can understand why Yumi didn’t connect, but I’d watched the movie in it’s entirety at one time and so had a history with it. Guess I’ve just outgrown the genre. Or, more likely, little that I identified with in 1986 has much relevance to my life these days. Duh.

While I was at it, I thought I’d also give Caddyshack a screening — seeing as how I’ve never watched it. (!) Fortunately I didn’t pay to see this movie in a theater because that would have been time and money out right out the window. That said, it was tough to watch — neigh, endure — in the background even as I busied myself with other things. At this rate I think I’ll forgo other “period” films in the same vein that somehow got by me. Porky’s, anyone? I think I’ll just stick with Turner Classics.

(By the way, this is why I don’t care to recommend films or books to other people. I know there are legions of Ferris fans out there — my cousin being one of them. For me, though, I know a film just isn’t working for me when all I can think about are the other things I could be doing instead of watching it.)

We’ve got your back: just don’t break it

You know, used to be a time when veterans who served their country could always count on the Veteran’s Administration for a few core services, should they need them: a home loan, burial services, and medical care. This last one is a biggie. Huge! Granted, the VA isn’t a great first choice for many — bureaucracy like you wouldn’t believe and tales of experimental surgery abound — but as a last resort you always knew you had somewhere to go.

Apparently (and I’m not the least bit surprised here) this policy has been “re-evaluated” during Bush II, the sequel. Having recently lost heath coverage myself, I went online last month and spent the better part of an hour filling out the requisite paperwork for getting back into the VA’s system. (Gone are the days where you could just waltz in bearing a Social Security card and get seen by a doctor.)

It wasn’t long after that I received a prompt reply welcoming me back to the fold as a member of Priority Group 8g, and that more information would be forthcoming. Everything was falling right into place. I wouldn’t be able to run to the doctor for any old ache or pain, but in the very least I wouldn’t bankrupt my family the next time a car runs me off the road into a ravine. This all seemed too good to be true.

Then the other shoe dropped. Just yesterday I opened a letter that regretfully informed me of a change instituted several years ago: as of January 17, 2003, the VA is no longer accepting “new higher income veterans for enrollment”. Golly. Higher income? Hot dog! Why didn’t somebody tell me sooner? I’ll bet for all of last year I didn’t bring home a penny over $15,000. And to think all this time I’ve been living the “higher income” high life. Who knew?

To the VA’s credit, though, they will consent to treat me should I ever become “catastrophically disabled” (and that doesn’t sound good, no matter how you spin it), but only if I pay the customary fees for services rendered. Now, I don’t know about you, but what is the last affordable catastrophe you can think of? The irony of all this is that I failed to enroll for VA medical care before the deadline, when the Japanese government just so happened to be looking after my well-being. Now that I’m back on American soil it’s back to the ol’ crap shoot. Let’s just hope I don’t get in any serious accidents before I find a job with benefits.

God, this next presidential election can’t come soon enough.

Exhibit B: the Trader Joe’s bag

Continuing on this theme from the previous post, take a look at these fabulous multi-purpose bags from Trader Joe’s. I just love them: beautifully designed with a color palette that will brighten anyone’s day. I’m harping on this issue because the few stores here in Hawaii that even sell reusable bags have such bland offerings for sale that most purchases can only be motivated by guilt. I have a hard time believing that people would ever freely use the bags in public because they actually like them. Which is my point: as long as you’re going to go to the trouble to make something, why not make it pleasurable, imaginative, and just happy?

Bag boy

Just returned from a run to the Apple Store to see about a malfunctioning fan (in my MacBook). I had to wait over 20 minutes past my appointment before being seen, but to the store’s credit I received some of the best face-to-face customer service I’ve ever had. I was duly impressed. While waiting, though, I noticed an acquaintance of mine working the floor. I should have gone over to say “hi”, and I’m sure she must have seen me in all the time I was standing there gawking above the crowd, but I never did, and the next 30 minutes I had to keep turning away from whatever part of the store she was in and pretend that I’d never seen her in the first place. Pathetic. What the hell am I afraid of?

As I stood there, a graying yuppie guy at the “Genius Bar” (gag — Apple, for god’s sake, change that) in front of me conspicuously checked his stocks on an aluminum MacBook Pro, dressed <em>down</em> head-to-toe in Patagonia clothing. Jesus, if I ever get to that state I hope a friend will take me out to lunch and have kindly ask me what the matter is. A stripper — I mean, she <em>had</em> to be a stripper, come on — came in to buy a thingamajig for her iPod, and god bless the male associates for trying their best to focus on her face. It ain’t easy to fight what only comes natural. I perused the conquer and colonize simulations and wondered how much time you’d have to commit to such an endeavor. I was so excited this past summer to pick up a free copy of the final Myst game but wonder when I’ll ever have the time…

Stopped at Daiei on the way home. Saw Noy at the seafood refrigerator but kept on walking. That’s 0 for 2. (So how many people had seen me, then?) The woman in front of me at the checkstand unloaded her cart (wagon here in Hawaii) of Frosted Flakes, ribs, soda, cookies, ad infinitum while nervously eyeing me eyeing her. Her mother and two children cut in line with a whole new basket full of items just as I was about to start unloading my own supplies — which happened to be mostly vegetables. I don’t know if she thought I was judging her, but she spoke to the cashier in very gruff, local speech to win solidarity, yet ordering her to ring up the late entries separate. The cashier just seemed to be getting pissed. The kids looked embarrassed and that only got the woman more animated. I thought about something I’d seen a while back about chemical imbalances in the mind brought about by diets that include a lot of Frosted Flakes, ribs, soda, cookies and so on.

On the way home one of the handles in my Sainsbury’s bag ripped free, though the handle kept the bag supported from my handlebars. I’ve had a bunch of these bags for years now (four, five?) and use them for everything from storage to moving to shopping. It’s nothing to load them up with 20-30 pounds each on a typical run to the store. I knew that one of them would give out eventually, but I expected it to happen years ago. I relate this little story because Hawaii is considering a ban on plastic grocery bags — a move that has some people up in arms but which makes perfect sense to me. Almost without fail, people strike up conversations about my bright and beautiful bags when I produce them at the markets. People love them! “Oh, isn’t that lovely!” “Where did you get that?” “I didn’t think you’d be able to fit everything in there!” “You know you could make a lot of money selling those here…”

Hear that? I’m giving you free business advice: start importing reusable shopping bags that are brightly colored and well-designed and you’ll not regret it. Several stores have started carrying their own branded, “eco” bags, but they’re no more exciting — perhaps even less so — than plain old brown paper ones. What’s so wrong about a bag that stirs the imagination?