Esprit de Corps

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tirant_lo_Blanch#

The literal translation for "esprit de corps"* is the spirit as it is expressed through the body, though its older usage described morale in the military. In truth, it was the best description I had for a Pinterest board I made about movement that covered art, dance, athleticism, martial arts, motion, movement, and the joy of being alive as it relates to the use of our bodies. Certainly, anyone who's ever been in mortal danger has their muscle memories to thank for the continued use of their body as it relates to other activities in a more peaceful future.

Sometimes, when I talk to my mom about my dreams or her MS, she tells me she has recurring dreams about running through a field of grass when, in truth, she was never athletic or even inclined to be active, preferring instead to sit and talk on the phone for hours, or dunk cookies in her tea (annoyingly, when also on the phone), or watch t.v. as she flips through magazines. She'll say it's because of her illness or her allergies (that she also sometimes forgets she has) but, really, it's because her personality prefers sedentary creature comforts. How odd, then, that her brain conjures up vigorous movement to express freedom and joy; feelings she was much more apt to attribute to cars rather than herself when she was younger and slightly more mobile, as part of her innate preferences for machines and artificial experiences over the real and the human.

When I studied ballet, I loved flying through the air the same way I liked swinging through the trees in our backyard, or spinning in a tire swing. Children excel at movement, in part because of their lower centers of gravity, something my less physically gifted parents would often quote at us, as further excuses for their inertia, cleverly designed to hide their laziness through pseudo-scientific phrasing. In contrast, we were made to work all the time, and when we did feel sick or take breaks, our parents hated that, too. "Get up! Do something!" It felt like they used us as charms to stave off their diseases, when they actually nursed our afflictions to budding stages.

There was a ferocity to our play-fighting as kids that transcended the typical city dwellers experience. My mom described us as "savages" or "wild monkeys hopped up on sugar" to her friends and family who are also round and cynical about it.  What were we?! She described the differences between us "soooo strange", like we were bound to be discovered as an ancient pygmy tribe from the bush any day. Me and my brother could fight for hours, scaling the narrow walls of our house's hallway like contestants on the game show "American Ninja Warrior", and it totally freaked her out. She'd never seen stuff like that before, especially among her squat hobbit clan.

I saw a native boy compete on the show last season, without any targeted training or benefit of a special obstacle course built just for appearing on the show, because he rightly assumed that his competitive sport of mountain climbing would do the trick for him, and it did. He grabbed a rope, released it in midair while spinning around to backwards-grab a moving obstacle that he then leapt from, landing perfectly on a mat with both feet. "Whoa! WHAT WAS THAT?!!", one of the announcers yelled out to the roaring crowd. That was an Indian, bro. His bright black eyes flashed with the same gleeful intensity as his big beautiful smile, pressing the red button that signalled his succesful finish. Welcome to the fight. We've missed you.


* https://www.vocabulary.com/dictionary/esprit%20de%20corps

Cruisin'

Years back—at the height of the social media craze—I re-connected with a former classmate I met in junior high school on a "friends" site, like so many of us who work with computers do. He wasn't part of my circle of friends back in the day, but I remembered him as a nice, quiet, serious boy; not exceptionally bright or gifted, but nice. My impression of him was confirmed during our reacquaintance in a series of IM chats through the online site that tended to go on and on, because he wouldn't disconnect from me first. He went to a SUNY school in the city for toy design that I thought was really neat, except that it wasn't for him, because he wrote to me that his architect dad "pushed" him into the program, when he really wanted to be a car designer. Oh.

It didn't make sense to me. No one can (or could) "force" me to be an Illuminator, especially my non-artistic immediate family, so how did it happen? He still really didn't know. He worked at a company for ten years that he described to me as his "dream job", in direct contradiction to his other messages. But, like me, he moved back from out west to Rockland County after years away, so we had that in common, along with design and martial arts. He got his Judo black belt from a strip mall dojo with a self-appointed "guru" who sold them potions while they were still on the mats, so I didn't expect much from our playful sparring, and he never competed. He sat on me with his full weight, and then told me that was a "pin" in judo, which I guess means a "win" without any technique or effort on his part. It was weird. "What do you, just sit on people?" Well, yeah...that was his strategy. Okay.

We diverged again artistically. I didn't remember him from any of my art classes at public school, and I'd taken them since childhood—even when they weren't offered on the curriculum—at my urging. He didn't strike me as an artist at all, nor do I remember any of his works. I'd simply never seen him in our studios at school. He was tepid about that, too. But, he did like to get the fuck out of his parents house while he re-established his career on the east coast, and that we very much had in common. My overbearing mom eases up immediately around strong men, because they telegraph "hetero" in a big loud voice that she doesn't like, so she skitters away vaguely. It gave me the head space I needed to endure dysfunctional family visits during their holidays—that they wrongly describe as "parties"—by having an excuse to leave, which was also noticed and attacked.

"You have to 'visit' with people when you come over!" my mom would say to me, only to either ignore me for the rest of the "visit", or abuse me into working "her" weirdo "party" filled with other headcases by serving and waiting on their lazy fat asses, only to have them insult me to my face. Fuck that! I can punch anyone of them in the face, hard enough to do serious damage. I don't have to sit in some overheated room to shove my face with bad food made for other addicts. We'd escape in his car for "joy rides" made through the twisting hills of rural Rockland County with the windows open to stave off motion sickness that sometimes didn't work, hiking our way through the trails we grew up walking. It gave us the counterbalance we needed in the mentally ill homes of our youth, as we adjusted to our adult roles of leadership in these families too sick to care for themselves in our absence.

He picked up visits to the acupuncturist his mother frequented in Nanuet, working out as a bodybuilder in New City and going to the local bars there. He established a suburban routine much quicker than I did, because I still worked as a designer in the city, and I had my own apartment in Park Slope that he immediately wanted to move into (not uncommon for me), by planting himself and his cat there for a length of time that was to be determined by me. He left on Monday morning. Besides his rather generic interests and habits, he also had a bland "white boy" sensibility about travel that was filled with dull cruises that he referred to as "cruising" online. I finally responded that to him that it's the go-to phrase for gay men on the make who are also fond of ships at sea. Oh...haha. Yeah. Did I like "cruising", though?

Oh, fuck no, "white boy". For a Filipino boy from New York, he had a lot less flavor than me, and he knew it. He told me he was always upset by people's reactions to his appearance, because he said he wasn't that exotic. "I'm kinda like a 'white boy' in L.A." Yeah. No shit, homeboy. You're kinda "white" here, too. It was doubly odd because the dude looked like a younger version of Jet Li or Donnie Yen; like, a good-looking martial arts movie star with an incredible physique. So, what gives with that? Why no "flair"? He didn't know the answer to that question, either. The last girl he dated was a homeless meth addict who slept on his couch (and with him) because he "felt sorry for her". 

He just liked to drive around aimlessly (he sent me the video links to his really dull driving videos that he made with a smartphone mounted on the dash of his car...yay), and his boring cruise ship pictures that could be anywhere with anyone. I immediately got tested after we broke up (negative for disease), and developed a much better attitude about men from my homeboy, so thanks for that. We had parted ways without any physical violence at all, which is quite uncommon for two martial arts "action heroes". No harm, no foul. It was a totally clean break from a kid who loved me from afar for many years, a schoolkid crush that he had made real for a short time, and that deserves some "kudos". But he doesn't deserve me, or a relationship with me that's a marriage with kids. That's for another superhero entirely. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Environmental_impact_of_shipping

I Got the Will (Drive Myself Sleepless)

Most common "gym rats" are notorious addicts looking to divert their angst-driven energies into something else besides cocaine and alcohol, and the endless sleepless nights that accompany serious bouts with manic depression. When I trained in martial arts, the sales pitches mirrored the mentality of their community comprised mainly of high school drop-outs, with the occasional two-year college program for a sports-related major thrown in for a better salary, which meant that they tried to sell me on their type of packaging. I didn't "train" to lose weight from the holidays or from over-eating, I wasn't there to get ready to go to the beach for the summer (I'm a native, yo! My routine is: wake up, brush teeth and hair, put on a suit with a cover-up, grab a towel, and LET'S FUCKING GO!!), or counteract my hypertension and/or hyperactive disorders. I was actually much weirder for them.

I was there because I'm a fighter, and I fight everyday to make the world a better place through my works. I know! It was like I was so fucking alien and strange to them, that the sports kids working the joint finally gave up talking to me (a great sign that they finally "got it" about me), or trying to use some tired sales pitch to "get me" to buy more classes. I either have the time, money, and inclination, or I don't. There simply isn't anything some junior can do or say to me that will "get me" to do anything, which makes Gen X the most hated marketing demographic the modern world has ever seen, giving me and my friends a great deal to be proud of, as it reflects our angry young punk view of the world. "Fuck you! Feed someone!" <middle finger> You know? Just get real with it, already. I don't need your tired ass tryin' to pick my pocket, muthafucka. I already ride the subway every day.

That's how I felt about it back then. If you're not adding value to my life, you're gone from it. I didn't have anything leftover to give. I was already making beautiful books for the public as fast as I could, at a cut rate price point that was way below market-value, giving the rest away to rent, food, medicine, clothing, and some fucking gym(s). They weren't putting money in my pocket, you know? It was all one way with them, so no need to be so fucking coy about it. Anyway, it was a "no harm, no foul" kind of situation for me. You don't go out of your way to mess with me, then I will show up, take your class(es), train, and then leave.  That's what I give: a perfect, static-free ride that puts money in your pocket with my attendance. What more do you need?

But, that's not what an addicts sells. They always want more. Way more. When I "leveled up" to my brother's harder martial arts school for the seriously wealthy wanna-be and those athletes who are supported by their deep-pocketed fandom, I knew it was risky just being there. My brother routinely lies about how much experience he has as a martial artist with a lot of disposable income, and artificially lowers his belt rankings whenever he feels like, so he can appear more like a beginner, and win against more gifted fighters with less experience in class and in competition. He's also a lot bigger than most dudes, which makes him less injury-prone in BJJ, and he likes to hurt people. Badly. He's a dude with some serious issues.

And so, his "pro" school reflected this warped world at an insanely jacked-up rate, with a lot more intensity than the average McDojo at your local strip mall. Know what I'm sayin'? Our gi's were embroidered with the word "competition" emblazoned on them already, regardless of a student's level or skill, just to let newcomers know that they're all seen as "fresh meat". And the kooks were quick to come-out. My flushing mechanisms were well-honed by then, so I knew crazy bitches would try to hurt me. What can I say? I was already injured. I popped my own meniscus (already damaged) and my partial ACL tear to a full one at my own discretion, doing a class drill common for BJJ but killer on your knees. Most addicts immediately get surgery (and more than just one or two knee surgeries, these are hard-bitten junkies, after all), but I didn't have the time or money to do so.

Besides, ACL replacement surgery is this harmful roll of the dice where you can either 1) receive a cadaver graft (!!!) from a recently expired person, and hope it takes to your body post-surgery without rejection or 2) get a graft made from a ligament lifted from another part of your body, and then keep your leg almost completely immobile for an entire year, and that's before the grueling PT part of your rehabilitative process even begins. Oh, and then you re-tear and re-injure your knee soon after resuming MMA/BJJ training, anyway. It just buys you another year or two in the game.

Huh? Say wha', muthfucka? I ain't in this business gettin' rich! There was absolutely no reason for me to undergo some serious life-threatening procedure so some out-of-town muthafucka can nurse his growing bank account (including his posh pad in Rio), just so I can pretend to be some bad-ass bitch. I rehabbed my knee injury at the YMCA in Brooklyn, because I had to do a similar thing after my first knee surgery from my dog walking accident with Ted. And then, like my doctor said, I just changed sports. It was hard to do, but I did it. I did Tai Chi, an aerobic kickboxing class (for amateurs), swimming, weight lifting, yoga, Pilates, bag training, and running on the elliptical. Problem-solved.

I still have some knee instability, but I have a professional knee brace for more intensive sports (like, say, downhill skiing that I don't do), and a series of other types of commercially-made knee wraps to compensate for rough times, like spring, when the weather turns really wet and humid. Always bothers my knee. C'est la vie. Here I am still writing to you, and that's what really counts in my world. My life story is what I trained to be a sensei* in, not your broke-ass view of the world, rife with crime and drugs. Feel me? I'm not a gym toy or a work-out machine for a bunch of screw ups to use at their discretion, pro career or not. Seek yo' gym fodder elsewhere.

After my real agenda became known, the intensity of the "hard sell" upon the other gym clients became more intense. If they slept a decent 8-9 hours worth of sleep a night, then they were characterized as "shiftless and lazy" in some classes because (in the words of one famous athlete) "your competition is training while you sleep!" Uh, excuse me? That muthafucka in the UFC was out bangin' last night at some club with a bunch of ugly-ass hookers, and I know that because I saw the footage live on entertainment t.v., whacked out on coke and his own self-created case of OCD. Get the fuck out! 

But, the more susceptible people around me took such wildly-made and totally irresponsible claims to heart. For them, their newly adopted sport held the zeal of a recent religious convert, pouring their emotions about their lives into something that could be as banal as sweating it out on some funky blue mats on a Monday evening with an out-of-shape fat dude in a bright headband sporting a really bad attitude because he isn't a real athlete, or fighter, or warrior. The reality behind any kind of training is the regularity and repetition of it, though with the more advanced classes and sparring sessions of MMA, that boredom is alleviated by the harder challenges each fighter faces, whether they be emotional, financial, mental, psychological, or physical. 

At the end of my stints training in other people's places, I came out with the exact same sense of self that I had before (and after) my MMA training: if I work hard enough, I can do anything. Of course, age and injury visits us all at some point in life, but the awe the other martial arts students in class had for me—and my relative maturity, in comparison to theirs—in those highly stressful fight sessions (regardless of age), pointed out anew to me what every art and design studio I'd ever worked for already knew about me: that I was already a "black belt" in life, and that I'd been one for a very long time. It wasn't something you could buy, or earn at some gym. And dip-shit, get a good night's sleep. That's mandatory. See you out there!

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sensei

for Cassius

Sleepless by Soul Coughing

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

So much time is cashed
So much smoke is wasted
Sudden disappearance
And the air is thick and cool

And I can't approach myself
Skidding over this perdition
And now I'm out on the veranda
When I should have gone to school

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

Well I call for sleep
But sleep it won't come to me
Shuffling in the hallway
I can hear him on the stairs

And I hear his lighter flicking
I hear the soft sigh of his inhale
And the whole width of my intentions
He exhales into the air, yea

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless

Skeedunt, stunt the runt
Smoking Buddha blunt
Skeedunt, stunt the runt
Skeedunt, stunt the runt
Smoking Buddha blunt
Skeedunt, stunt the runt

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless, sleepless, sleepless

I got the will to drive myself sleepless
I got the will to drive myself sleepless
Sleep, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep, sleep
Sleep, sleep, sleepless

"Jits, bitch!"

I understand that some celebrities and other well-known personalities are often portrayed as targets for public aggression, but sometimes all that static is justified. I didn't need to see the entire video of a rapper trying to game some neighborhood kids to know that it's not right for a grown man to sucker punch a teenager, no matter how much a youngin' sasses back at you. Anyway, what the heck is he doin' trying to run a soccer game in their 'hood? He ain't from Atlanta. He's from Ohio (I checked), so why does he step up to manning their game? Is he a soccer pro? What's with the one-glove action?! 

What makes him qualified to step in and boss some kids around, kids who look like they're having a local game on their block, not some group team practice? Chill, mutha! And if you got grown-ass men actin' like children in your game, then do what this smart kid does: drop him in a tackle, take the back by holding your mount, then finish him with a reliable hold like the "rear naked choke". That's how you win without ever having to throw one single punch (might hurt your hand, yo!), and that is the magic of Jiu Jitsu, friends. Stay safe out there, kids. Urban jungles can be rough with the wrong crowd!  And have fun :)

http://www.afterschoolalliance.org/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brazilian_jiu-jitsu

Sweatin' with the Oldies

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martial_arts

After I dumped yet another fucked up Irish-American kid who clung to me like I was his last drink of the night at closing time, I quit smoking and took up Mixed Martial Arts at the age of 37-going-on-38 shortly, with two pins in my left knee and much damage to the area, the result of a highly invasive knee surgery (with several DVT's afterwards) that I needed after my Giant Mal pulled me over during a too-early morning walk that was at the hectoring behest of the contentious out-of-towners living downstairs from me, put into motion to assuage their madness at life itself, none of which I controlled.

And so, unlike the rest of the typical New York crowd looking to bail out of their banal schedules at the slightest chance, I went without another drunken night at a bar (with people I couldn't stand), to train on the mats of the local McDojo that was close to my Manhattan office building, many months after the bipolar receptionist, her fat friend, and the pretty Puerto Rican kid had bailed for other places more rife with strife. I trained with their Head Instructor at the time, Sensei Jason Lopez, a man who excelled at grappling and wrestling in their style.

It was an odd time for their school, because they used to be a strip mall chain exclusive to the suburbs, now branching out due to the success of MMA as a sport, to keep up with area-wide demand for exercise programs, which was disastrous for the real athletes who paid a lot of money for expert instruction. They used to be a karate school because the Schulmann boys (two Jewish kids from Spring Valley in Rockland County) originally competed in tournaments, though even that was under a cloud of suspicion. They made wild claims with some myth that included an old Chinese man walking their Holocaust-fleeing grandparents over a rough Asian mountain chain to freedom, where they were taught many ancient mystical arts from their beloved Shifu, which made me laugh so hard when I read it online, that I was shocked by the crazies at their school who wanted it so badly to be true.

They had some bad burnouts at the Manhattan school, people dazed by the change from traditional katas to the aerobic exercise that characterizes the mixing of many arts, baffling as that was to their clientele who preferred the comfort of regularity without change. They simply couldn't keep up with the new program, and they knew it, which set up an "old versus new" student dynamic that turned ugly quickly. Of course, I was targeted by pretty much every person there, except the younger kids who wanted to date me, or at least rub up against me, if they could keep up with my schedule designed by Sensei.

Soon enough, the posers dropped away to form a small but dedicated group of training partners for me: some were good, some were bad, and some of them couldn't perform martial arts if their lives depended on it. For me, it didn't really matter. I just needed them to be consistent enough that they could hold the training mitts needed for my combos, or a kicking shield for our practices, and anyone can do that. It was in that spirit I found myself walking into an almost-empty studio one evening after work, because St. Patrick's Day often falls on a weekday here in New York, and I had a demanding art director's job that needed me to stay in business. My reputation had proceeded me, and that's not something you toss away for the same type of pint of beer you've been hoisting since at least your college days, though for my working class native crowd, it was often sooner than that.

They had a program with local law enforcement at the time of my training period there, though in truth they were looking for anyone who could be lured inside their studio space by some asshole kid with a "fauxhawk" haircut that they made stand outside on the sidewalk, handing out flyers to the passing commuters, because he was a total dick. I wouldn't buy a thing from him, and they knew that, too. So, I changed and waited upstairs with my gear on (like we'd been taught) , waiting for the current class to end so we could hit the mats at the sensei's signal, in a deep sense of order and respect that marks the true martial artist. After all, he was the one with the black belt who'd fought a thousand fights to be leading class, as he reminded us whenever he felt his crowd was drifting away in the wrong direction.

Schools with a lot of beginners need almost-constant encouraging from the staff, because amateurs without any real artistry lose heart without paying cheerleaders to rally them from the sidelines, in a paid show of support. With me it was totally unnecessary, and the staff knew that, too. They were, quite simply, blown away by me, choosing instead to give me a wide berth at the school while their lead guy taught me their classes. That night of St. Pat's was my favorite class, "Bag Training", because it was easier on my bad knee than the training that's typical for grappling classes (even with the padding), plus I depended less on the partner who held the punching bag for me. I had a "rep", as they say, which is typical for me everywhere I go.

The more frightened students who'd been coerced into classes they couldn't get a refund for, without serious injury or moving out of town (the Attorney General for New Jersey from years ago had to sue them as a chain, on behalf of the parents of injured children who never got refunds, as one Eliot Spitzer), made whispered deals in the locker room for training partners, to ensure some sense of control over what happened to them on the mats. I had no such luck, seeing as most of them women there avoided eye contact with me purposefully, to avoid partnering with me or having a conversation, so I just went with whoever didn't have a partner after sensei said "partner up" in class, like selecting kids for a hard game of dodgeball with lots of long-held grudges, except that this was the opposite.

Luck have it, I got a Mick who was enrolled with the cop's discount program, or at least that's what I remember hearing, and he certainly fit the description. During warm-ups, I got a good look at him as I sat on his feet while he did crunches. We'd been given instructions to hem the sleeves and pants of our gi's and baring that, to at least roll up our sleeves, which you wanted to do anyway, just to cool your skin in the hot dojo and get them out of the way. He'd chosen to ignore that rule, preferring instead to do the handy bachelor trick of ripping the bottom of his white gi pants into a ragged edge, giving them the appearance of floods. Further still, he was a receding hairline, salt-and-peppered, middle-aged man looking to keep up with his fitness, and I certainly understood the motivation behind that. Maybe that was part of the deal behind his bright kelly green headband, too.

Not only that, he had on dirty pants stained at the butt, also against dojo rules to always wash your gi before your next class and be freshly washed, so as to not offend your training partner. Ah, fuck that! Most of us developed the easy routine of (at least) washing our gi the night before (they were the lightweight kind), and then hanging them to dry, because packing your gym bag for the day is also part of the routine. He'd also decided to mark himself out even further as a NYPD Mick by sporting that same green sweatband around his constantly-sweating red head, in case we missed his remarkably pale pallor on the exposed skin showing below his ripped pants. Oh! Thanks!

It was with a great sense of irony that I rolled with an Irish-born male still sporting his native brogue that I could discern in the few short words he did speak to me on the night of St. Patrick's Day, while other Celts drank to exhaustion or vomiting, as he sweated with me on the bright blue mats. Could be worse, I though to myself, smelling him ripely for not the first time that night. We could be one of them on the other side of the huge pane of glass in that street-level studio, easily viewable to the drunks making fun of us as they weaved pass. We could be one of them wandering about aimlessly, in a city not of their own. Besides, I never forgot it, have I? Here I am working for all of you today at my local library, instead of some equally desperate office gig in the city, celebrating a weekday night made exceptional only through another rough commute made worse with the drunks who'd smell even riper on the evening bus out of town, if they weren't passed out already. I could be one of them instead. Go raibh maith agat.

 “May you have goodness.”

http://www.bitesize.irish/blog/polite-phrases-in-irish/ 

for R.S.
 

Neck

http://fallout.wikia.com/wiki/Taboo_Tattoos

I met Jimmy at a bar down on Stone Street with the company receptionist from the small Jewish family business I worked for, during my last long-term office job. She was busy burning through the new people, places, and things that she could at this McDojo we signed with, which gave me the relative peace of having a training experience of my very own, without parenting her through it. She remains one of the most disturbed women I've ever met through other people's companies, following a typical pattern of hiring that's based on the myth that other mentally ill/disabled people make the odd family members stick out less, which never really works. Who builds businesses based on the backs of a bunch of sick people? Not really good ones, like the workflows I design as I was taught, through an impressive list of industry mentors.

So, chaining their rabid Israeli girl with the weird yellow hair to a front desk, watching her explode into deranged fireworks day after day, really didn't mean much to me. Who cares? I had the actual business of books to work on with my contacts and clients. I was an almost totally self-sufficient business within a business, which the best creative contractors can pull off in their sleep, under the false duress of other people's manias. I kept a strict schedule that would automatically cut out anyone who couldn't hack it, which meant most of their resident amateur weirdos ran out of the door in horror of our actual labors, and they were forced to hire real publishing executives with genuine credentials from big league New York publishing, like me.

Their fried dyed mess of a doggie was honing in on me gradually though, because she could feel me pull away as easily as if she was just another generically fucked-up Long Islander, and she was that. Most of her work friends were gone, like her supposed "best friend" who was fired and then group-texted a bunch of us while we were working that she might just off herself, which sent her high school buddy running back to see me. "Oh, Becky always does that." Huh...not in my world. What gives? I trained her not to interrupt my day with her trivial madness, seeing as we all drew a paycheck from my continued successful contact at Barnes & Noble, the largest book retailer in the country. No me + no work = no money. Even she could figure that out with her more corrupt cronies at the office who preferred email hacking over the small in-house network to actually working. Ew!

Spying on me occupied their free time, and even in that strange game, I had them hooked through my online comments on well-known media sites that caused a ruckus throughout the place. Haha! I LOVE corporate espionage! It's fun! After that, she had to step up her game at infiltrating my life with an ever more aggressive and open series of mind games that don't work on genius talents who create paychecks for them through their book sales. Sorryy....She awkwardly asked me to sign up for karate lessons at a cheap intro price one afternoon while I walked past the front desk, after I created another successful distance she could practically taste in her mouth, because she knew I quit smoking through their email readings and my Internet surfing; I was actively looking online for fitness programs, like fencing with an epee or foil (http://fencersclub.org/). Yuck!

Her brother was actively engaged in martial arts training, which cinched the deal for her as a coward. She couldn't walk down the block unless she was looped off secretive hits taken in the company bathroom from a big blue bottle of mouthwash. After an initial observation session with one of their instructors (I won that assessment, too, BTW. I know, I know...sigh...again), we signed up for the program and it was going great. She soon learned that I didn't need athletics to tame a raging case of violent bipolar addictive disorder with markedly psychotic features like she did, so she picked up on a lonely fat girl desperate for a friendly face in our aggressive fight training classes. She began sweeping into class at the last minute to avoid talking to me on the mat, and then developed a ridiculous crush on a kid who was 19 and a brown belt instructor at the time.

Once again, I had no problem backing away from her, which once again backfired on her evil machinations, because the good-looking Puerto Rican kid from Spanish Harlem promptly announced his crush on "women in their 30s" made loudly in front of the both of us that drove her mad with envy, though Lord knows why, except she also has OCD. She used me as a lure to attract him into conversation that failed miserably, because she had absolutely nothing to say. Frothing at the mouth in anger, she told me to stay away from him as she tried her hand at 21st Century "cougaring", a sport she was bested at by a better-looking Spanish girl with a design degree and a great job with a famous cosmetics manufacturer doing package design for major retailers. Ohhh...that must have hurt badly!

As she went down in flames, her very last draw for a high-status female friendship were post-workout drinks with me, just like the after-work soirees she first invited me to without much success either, because crazy bitch games don't mean shit to me. And that's when I met Jimmy, a short good-looking Irish-American kid from Brooklyn working FDNY/limo driving. As soon as I bit into one of my first hot wings at the bar, I could sense him working a circuit around the joint, circling the place, looking for attractive pickings, and as soon as I looked up from my hot wing, he looked right at me. Ooops. Uh, this should go over badly. I quickly told her discreetly that he was coming over to hit on me, as a warning to her fragile ego. She immediately perked up during his harmless flirtations, doing a bunch of weird moves that baffled him, until he and I finally turned to each other for a real honest talk, the kind that only genuine New York city kids have with one another.

We knew the same Brooklyn neighborhoods, and sweet guy that he was, it was more than enough. He was like a lot of guys I grew up with, and he knew that. No harm, no foul. She made a quick plan to leave me alone with him as part of her punishment to me for turning away from her while she talked with his less-attractive friend, but as one co-worker had already observed in his email to me (hi Scooter!), my genetic attractions weren't my fault, nor his. She left me alone to whatever the fates had in store for me, which in this case meant hand-holding back to his parked SUV, and a nice drop-off at my Park Slope townhome with my little bag of drugstore products (like organic panti-liners) left in his truck by accident.

We made tentative plans for his returning them to me one evening after my work was done, ringing him on my cellphone from the Chelsea corner near my office, but it didn't work out. He was already out on a fare that wasn't near my subway stop in Manhattan. Oh, well. That was fine by me: the lad was far too young for me and besides, he'd never been to the real country of Ireland, just the commercial one he designed in his head that made for easy marketing in New York City, as part of the local color. Besides, as a master artist, taste means a lot to me and his quickly-rendered shamrock tat left much to be desired, as did it's placement in the middle of the back of his neck that he showed to me after shots. No thanks, mate. Sláinte to ya for the safe ride home, though. You were a sweet kid to me that night. Ta!

Sportsdyke

Infamous 80s hairdo known as "the softball haircut", or more recently dubbed the "Dyke-O'Mullet", as worn by my kind of lesbian, a man: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mullet_%28haircut%29

Psychological warfare doesn't just take place in offices, behind closed doors. Luckily for me, abuse follows me wherever I go! In fact, some of the weirdest behavior that seems to happen around me all the time was during my time on the mats of some infamous dojos, with or without athletic lesbians included, because (and here's the kicker), I'd be there regardless of the other people who may or may not be seriously dedicated athletes. Me? I just don't give a fuck. It's enormously expensive to train with elite athletes, and as such, I take it seriously enough (kinda like ballet as a kid), but better, because there's lots of dudes around, which brings me to another important point: I've done some of my roughest fighting with my brother Bernie, during that glorious time before he hit puberty, and when I actually had a decent shot at beating him or making him cry, which I hated. He was my best friend as a kid, and a beautifully sensitive boy who was bullied at school (he was called "pretty boy" a lot), which I also hated.

It's part of what makes him so angry, because he's always had great difficulty processing his emotions well, given genetic difficulties that he certainly didn't want or ask for, which gave him way more free passes at home and away than I had, but not by much. He gets crazy/angry quickly, which, as an experienced martial artist in the Super Heavyweight class, means I can't train with him in total effectiveness at the dojo for competitions, which he also reminds me about whenever I want him to spar with me. You know, he could do me a favor, instead of the other way around, but whatevs, Bern. No, I know! You pay a lot of money for "your time", too, and I'm so puny and weak, how could you get a decent workout for your money? Not much has changed between us in that sense over the years, besides his obvious big size over me. You think I'm kidding? He's bred one heck of a big boy who took to MMA naturally (without hard time on the mats) much more than his older, smaller, and way more experienced black belt brother in Taekwondo, and that bears a seriously strong thinking-over, too.

Which brings me to the other point about me and fight training; it's in the blood. I'm not a warrior because I choose it, or because I like some trendy fucking gym scene. It chose me. And my brothers. And my nephews....but I digress. What some crazy dyke thinks is a good rubbing around with her strap-on "bestie" while spending our time on the mat to play stupid fucking games with (BTW: thanks, Anne, for rolling with Peg while "dyke-ing" it up at TSMMA, while I tried to stay alive with you two fucks during grappling, you know, because you had a brown belt and Peggy has a black belt), is my real fucking sport. Wackos waste time, and time is money, so get a grip, moron.

Just do what I do. Wrestle it out like a pro during class (while I look at some of the more handsome gentlemen folk with actual penises who may be training) and then afterwards...well that's up to you and me and you-know-who, because that "Big Injun" I know (who happens to be just around the bend) is the best warrior ever, if you know what I mean. Like, the ultimate. Yeah, that's it! How catchy! Training with professionalism without the weird fucking head games that don't work is like being "The Ultimate Warrior", or something like that. I dunno. Maybe.That's what I heard, at least, from those people commentating live on t.v. during MMA fights. See you on the mats, warriors, and leave your fucking crazy dyke shit you think you're working out at home, okay? I don't give a fuck about it. It's "go" time! Happy hunting.

http://www.mulletjunky.com/

Camouflage

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camouflage

We've all seen the reports about "Problem America" and our supposedly rabid bloodlust for gun violence, but that only tells part of the story. For every raging "gun nut" with a pseudo-militaristic bent who's overdosed on too many boyhood war flicks, there exists an actual veteran with a licensed weapon who belongs to a legitimate gun club, carrying an updated permit tied to a rigid background check with a psych screening (perhaps a blood test with a urine sample or two thrown in, for good measure) that's current. Why would owning and driving a car require more testing than carrying a deadly weapon? It shouldn't be like that, and that's not our intention here*.

As a nation of expats, exiles, and immigrants from war-torn countries around the world that have in power a wealthy ruling elite funded by corruption, Americans tend to be a little sensitive about oil barons in fancy trucks who have all the guns, and we don't. Our Constitution actually preserves our rights as citizens to form an opposing militia, in the event that it all goes wrong somehow with our government sometime in the future, like, maybe during a zombie apocalypse coupled with the latest impending nuclear attack. It's extreme, really. Or perhaps, like my gentlemen friend from the post office who sported flannel along with his ole fishing hat with NRA and scouting badges: you grew up in rural upstate New York where the wild things live, because hunting and fishing is a big part of your life.

I'm not talking about those faux hicks who sell it in modern "cuntree" songs about some pretend lifestyle that preserves inbred rednecks getting drunk and shooting off guns in the middle of woods, because we certainly have those type of kooks 'round the way, too. My former handyman from the 'hood is just such a type of Nuyorcian. One afternoon while he and his skeleton crew worked (including a one-eyed Mexicano who didn't have his own paintbrush, even though they were there to paint my apartment, and he's probably an illegal alien, too), my friend came up to me while I was writing a novelization of yet another office situation gone mad in the city, he though it was more than acceptable to interrupt my work at the keyboard so as to settle some crazy-ass nonsense he and his brother had about Bruce Lee. 

You read that right, amigos. My handyman though it was totally fine to ask me in the middle of my work day to "squash a beef" for him about Bruce Lee, by asking me to look up a YouTube video for him, so as to ascertain whether or not the video was real or faked, like, some far out Sasquatch or Loch Ness type of shit that would link up to Lee's faked death, a la President Kennedy and the grassy knoll type of situation, ya feel me, peeps? We all have that kind of paranoid, conspiracy-theory friend. I told him that it was definitely possible for a real martial artist like Bruce Lee to bust that kind of move on film with nunchucks**, hard as it was, because in addition to his professional acting chops, he really was master martial artist.

After his grunting concession to that blatantly obvious and very well-known fact from martial arts movie history (I know, "hood rats", I know. I'm rollin' my eyes, too), I couldn't help but notice that my friend had decided that today was the day to sport (from his colorful bevy of them) a charming camouflage print do-rag*** decorated jauntily with silhouettes of very large guns because, of course, he and his wacky friends have indeed gone upstate to a remote location (or so they thought) to get drunk, get loud, and mow down trees... or not, as the case may be.

You see, another one of my handyman's wacky theories was finding out if you can indeed get 1) crazy drunk, 2) whacked out of your mind on blow, and then 3) shoot down a tree, if you only have enough ammo and the right AK-47. It's just one of those things that freakin' Ricans do. You see, back in the day, some o' my peeps were so desperate for cool green spaces in the 'hood that they decided city parks sucked (too much crime), and that parking by the side of a busy highway upon first seeing any type of grass at all was perfectly fine, car exhaust be damned. It was so widespread a thing that as we drove back from the city, my family called them "Puerto Rican picnics" because you are not supposed to park by the side of a busy highway just to eat with your little children. It is, in fact, highly illegal, as is almost every recreation that my friend attempts in his leisure time.

He proceeded to tell me about how they pissed off the farmer next door (because, you know, that early rising scumbag with all the kids and animals to take care of is racist, man), and then the cops were called, with tickets, fines, and summons issued, all because my dumb-ass friend and his stoopid crew of wackadoos from the 'hood thought it was funny to shoot at shit in the dark of night, with the lights of a distant farmhouse next door suddenly signalling to them that is, indeed, not okay to do that to your neighbor, you dumb fuck.

And no, he didn't chop down a tree in his friend's backyard at three a.m. with his big gun (nor did any of his friends), because there ain't enough ammo in the world to do that job well, and also because (this is key, kids) that IS NOT what our Constitution guarantees (nor do any of the Amendments), but he decided with more than a few beers in him to take what we fight for everyday and wipe his butt with it, because despite charming t.v. sitcoms about "making it", a locale change for him and his motley crew can't make up for what education and life skills can really do for them. He needs that. Not more ammo. Certainly not more guns.


*     https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Right_to_keep_and_bear_arms 
**    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nunchaku  
***  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do-rag

Sea Monkeys

http://seamonkeys.wikia.com/wiki/Sea_Monkeys_Wiki

Except for the really expensive stuff we couldn't afford (the kind of stuff you asked for your birthday and Christmas gifts, combined), most of the ads for kid's toys on the back of comic books sucked, like those crappy stick-on tattoos from a Cracker Jack's box, or the cruddy gum packed in with your baseball cards, and those were the good old days of stuff for kids. People are nastier assholes about children nowadays, because so many people do it so poorly. I briefly dated an acquaintance from my school days here, mostly because he was coming back from L.A. and living with his parents in New City (in, like, his old room from high school and everything. I know, sooo bad), so he gave me a good reason to get out of my Mom's small apartment in Rockland and go hiking outdoors, which is taboo to my mom's dysfunctional clan. 

Nature is something to be feared and contained through allergy medications and climate-controlled thermostats, and weather is something so bad and awful for "hobbitses" to bear, that hearing rain outside or seeing clouds in the sky brings on panic shakes so bad, more mood pills must be taken, while cringing indoors behind closed drapes over tightly sealed windows, waiting for it to just pass. All of that is better than me leaving one of their horrible addicts-only "parties" to hike the trails I grew up hiking most of my life as a kid, which is a big part of the allure and beauty that is unique to this area, so much so that I needed some kid I barely knew from high school to bring his adult weight-training, black-belted self into my mom's place as a male presence that easily frightens latently gay fat creatures away, by deterring them from taking further action against me and my plans. 
In other words, I needed this guy for home visits. 

He was horrible, and I knew that, but it didn't matter. He wanted to use me for my affluence (beautiful Park Slope town-home apartment) and success (infamous Art Director in publishing) for his cat and bad family. It's not new to me. He also blamed his parents (I know!) for everything that went wrong in his life, with the exception of his delusional belief that the magical healing powers of Acupuncture would heal his brain of alcoholism and depression, which was practically see-through as excuses, because he comes from a wealthy, highly educated Filipino family. His uncle is a doctor in Manila and his dad designed the house they live in, because he's an architect. In the face of actual achievements, he caved like a bitch white boy to "pressure" by allowing his dad to steer him into the relatively new major at F.I.T. (that welcomed home of many monied Asians) of "Toy Design", which I thought was really cool. Uh, no, Marie. What are you, like, stupid?! 

He wanted to be a much more lauded and highly vauled CAR DESIGNER, which basically means he punked out of failing at that on his own, to do the dysfunctional Rockland kid trick of driving around aimlessly all day whenever he wanted to escape his parents place. 
He chose to combine his spoiled brat behavior with some daffy Southern Californian shit that he picked up on the road and at the local strip mall dojo (black belt+$$$=5 years), like how his bad "energy" made him drink whiskey in the middle of the day when it dawned on him that proposing to me after three months in the parking lot of a Piermont restaurant was perhaps a tad too far in "Crazy". Of course, I said nothing to him at the time, because I actually wanted him to drive me back home safely to my mom's place, and it was one of the most beautiful nights on the river that I can remember in recent times. Grandview was rebuilding from the never-to-be-spoken-of "Hurricane", a force so powerful that we must sacrifice ourselves to it forever, as the moon shone over the water on our way back to Nyack like rarely seen, right before we hit the Tappan Zee bridge and town.

I didn't need this particular old classmate to tell me he that he was a shiny fool's gold of a stone glinting under the surface of the water ("Don't you remember me? We were like, best friends in school!", which we never were), because this New York girl had it all down pat already to unpack right on top of his head, and don't you know he knew that? Like my brother Bernie used to tell me every time my little kid self wanted to see fantastical sea creatures grow in our small fish aquarium (the glass one that we used every summer for years, to keep those tiny orange goldfish we won at the Chestnut Grove Elementary school fairs that always died), because I still believed the ad copy on Bazooka Joe cartoons and Casper the Ghost comics: "Those aren't real 'Sea Monkeys', Marie. There's no such thing as a 'sea monkey'. They're just these tiny brine shrimp that grow a little bit under water, and you can barely see them. It's a total rip-off." Yeah, I guess you're right, Bernard. You can't fool a real Pirate Queen like me. 

For kids who already know about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, click here:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sea-Monkeys

Exercise and Athleticism: The Real Deal

Over the summer.

I've been thinking about age, weight, and the body for a long, long time; much longer than I actually want to or care to. It began with my mother's poor self image, which is related to her "odd" body shape: a large head with a sort of squat, short-limbed body and a protuding belly that she always blamed on her kids, even though the spinsters in her family carry their excessive weight in the exact same ways. 

Sports bra and shorts, summer of '14. Not skinny, chick.

Then there was the neurotic former "star" Rockette ballet instructor and her weirdo adopted kid who used our kiddie classes to alternately berate us with their barbed and thinly-veiled derisive comments to push more lessons on us by dangling out dreams of a Lincoln Center dance career in the city, starting with dropping pasta as a food at age 9 or 10, followed by more pointed comments about "blubber" that "flopped about" during classes (of which I had none), and the roundness of my so-called gymnasts' booty, because I actually have an ass. It was all very pseudo-lesbionic, and so not interesting to me, so I Ieft that whole dysfunctional world far behind me as a pre-teen.

In order to punch hard, you need to have the arms for it.

But it still haunted me and my friends in each and every place out in the world, in one stupid way or another: competitive jealousies that seethed over into hatred, petty pissant aggressions, and other strange mindsets that I avoid like the plague, no matter what social group it infects. Want to act like ten year old "frenemy" rivals who get angry, drunk, and kissy? Look elsewhere, sister, or better yet, go audition for that new reality show, because you and your bipolar ways are exactly the type of star those cats are looking for. Me? I'm interested in keeping my health reasonably well and doing things with my body that include eating and moving about. I also sleep well, too. 

That means I also have pronounced arm muscles when I flex.

So, here it is, in full unretouched color: the actual body of a 45 year old woman with 12 (I think?) belt rankings in various martial art disciplines, who also does yoga, walks each and every day uphill, eats really good food, and takes probiotics. That's it.  No supplements, no drugs, no botox, and no removable body parts. It's just me and my old iPhone, with no Photoshop or fancy software apps, nor special lenses, filters, gadgets, or any other devices. Me, alone, in my apartment, trying to take pictures that capture me as I look when you see me out and about in real life.

Back and shoulder width to deliver through on a punch.

It's jarring, but there it is. The truth. I know a lot of folks in the media game who get their heads twisted by it, like an ex-friend in production design who gets paid to airbrush women's photos for ads and magazines, then seemed shocked when the men she met from the Internet called her out for tweaking her photo online. Huh. You mean, that's unethical?! I sat there mute at some bar drinking a beer while she bitched about being turned down for her "weight" by some guy who probably sucks, too. Bizarre: a bunch of headcases playing mental games on each other. Why?

I also have visible thigh muscles for strength, too.

Of course the answer is that people with mental problems also have problems with just about each and every facet of their lives, with a very long list that includes (but is not limited to): dating humans, human's and their weight, body image, and just about any other fucking thing you can imagine, plus a few you and I can't anticipate, what with a good night's sleep, decent food, and fresh air and all.

I should look like I have no real features because airbrushing is cool!

True, I'm hip to it all: photography, lighting, composition, framing, cropping, color, posing, editing, and choosing flattering images with good proportions through my art and design education combined with years and years of demanding publishing experience, so, yeah, I can understand checking out of reality with a phony, dangerously unhealthy fantasy...or, wait, can I?! Of course not! That's fucking insane, human, and you fucked up.

I've done years of crunches without caving my stomach inward!

I also know that fair skin is harder to light and photograph because it shows more flaws, like our dearth of supposedly gross "cellulite", and that's why t.v. is dominated by the "Oompa Loompa" orange set! Just spray on a weirdo skin tone to mask all those flaws, and slap on a grossly over-inflated pair of plastic boobs to balance out those feminine hips, bust, thighs, and butt. Diet it away and replace it with plastic parts!  I mean, what do fans know about what people really look like outside of Hollywood pictures? It's all make-believe! Right? Amiright?!

No worries, though. This underwear will make me super human!

Once again, human, you are wrong. I'm a proud New Yorker, and when I walk my muthfuckin' streets, my people see me. They see me in the daytime, they see me at night, they see me in good light, and they see me in fluorescent. They see me with makeup or without, they see me with blemishes, and also with sunny freckles. They see me age well, not like a plastic object, but as a real beautiful woman who wears sunblock every day because doctors advise us to do so, and I am humble (and healthy) enough to do so.

There will be no scrawny people in my life, and that includes me.

I've been really thin and I've been somewhat thicker, but for the most part I am (and will probably always be) a size 6, just like my shoe size. I refuse to give a fuck what some random headcase thinks, and that includes you; not because I dislike you particularly, but because your fucked up mindset is part of the problem, and I am part of the solution. That is the battle between good and evil, and I will ultimately win the fight because I always have, and I always will.

These are called "abs". You get them through consistent exercise.

That doesn't mean I'm going to go out of my way to make bad photos, or unflattering ones, or compress my "fat" in a deliberate way to prove that I have some on me, because I am a natural woman and I do have fat, just like my gender always has. We have it for very good reasons, mostly related to healthy childbirth and managing pain well.

More muscle, this time at night and in pink booty shorts!

Nor does it mean that I'll pay a photographer to make me look good, because that's not what this lesson is about. This is about realness, and you may call me a lot of names, but inauthentic will never be one of them. I actually like modeling, and thought about it (like every NYC kid does) as a teenager to make me some money for college, over duller jobs like working retail in some boring strip mall store.

I also have muscle on the inside of my legs, too!

But just because I work media and I understand fashion does not mean I approve of the strictly enforced anorexia and bulimia that currently rules the runways, because I do not. When I see it, I see the same thing you do: a hardcore, deeply ingrained, and institutionalized mental illness that hasn't abated in many, many years. Not one (NOT ONE) of the heterosexual men I have dated over the years like me thinner over fully fleshed out. NOT ONE SINGLE MAN, and I have dated a bevy of very handsome and desirable ones. 

Me letting it all hang out. These are my real breasts!

Tightening my abdominal muscles.

Which lends me to believe that the hip-less boob-less monstrosities we see every day in movies and t.v. are not designed for men and the women who love them, which, once again, does not interest me. I do not sleep with gay men or women, nor do I have anything against anyone who does. But, what do I care what they think? Would you?!

You have to then ask yourself, "Why?" Why do you love an ideal that has more to do with heavily gay fashion, design, and media than it does with you as a woman and your health? Why is that your priority? Your man knows what he likes in you (and they love it, girls, THEY LOVE IT)! What are trying to prove? What exactly are you trying to do? What the hell is your goal, human?

Think about it. Think about what I've written, and then get back to me about weight, bodies, health, eating food, getting sleep, and regular fitness built into your days. Until then, I'll see you out and about while I live my life, because that's ultimately what my winning strategy is about: winning and succeeding at life. See you when you come out the other side of this issue. Good health this weekend, lovers!