Check This Out

Finally something that combines two of my favorite things (no, not scotch and bacon) -- music and cartoons:

The Class of 3000.

You can watch the most recent episode online, even if you don't get cable.

Vietnam By The Numbers

I'll probably be commenting about my recent trip to Vietnam in more detail at some point in the future, but for now, here are some key facts:

• Cost of one of the best meals of my life: 10,000 VND (or about 62 cents) for two people
• Number of times Vietnam traffic made my life flash before my eyes: 23
• Number of mosquito bites incurred: 63
• Number of mosquito bites incurred in a 10 minute period while on an aborted trip to explore a national forest: 53
• Number of truly dingy looking street stalls I frequented for snacks or meals: ~ 30
• Number of times food from said street stalls was awesome: ~30
• Number of times I puked due to food from said street stalls: None
• Number of times I puked after getting my ass kicked in a night of drinking with a 67-year-old man: 5
• Number of flasks of cognac said 67-year-old's wife carries around in a pack for him for "emergencies": 4
• Clues that I shouldn't try to match him drink for drink: 4
• Times I wished I was dead the day after: 43,200
• Times I said, "This is fucking awesome": > 20
• Number of pictures I took: 252
• Number of pictures anyone will ever see: 0
• Years it will take for my wife to stop reminding me that I lost the camera: 243

Emasculated, yet aroused

I don't think it's boasting or hubris to claim that my fitness level (or "general physical preparedness," as they might call it in the military, is at the 95th percentile of the general American population. In fact, I might even be a few points higher.

I've done a lot of work and research to get to this point. I started out with the types of workouts that you see in those useless mainstream fitness magazines like Men's Health and Men's Fitness. They're all the same, month after month. Three sets of 8 to 10 reps of [insert random exercise here], then 20-30 minutes on a treadmill or eliptical machine. Blah blah blah. Cosmetically, it's not too bad. I actually got a six pack doing this. But when I engaged in my sports of choice (martial arts, trail running. skiing), it made absolutely no difference in my performance. I wasn't any stronger or faster, and my endurance certainly didn't hold up. So. Back to the drawing board.

(Well, actually, disgusted with my results, I took some time off and went back to the funnest physical regimen ever: smoke, masturbate, drink, eat. Not necessarily in that order. But repeat often.)

But I'm vain and I missed my six pack. And so I discovered Matt Furey's Combat Conditioning system. Bodyweight calisthenics. The bodyweight provides resistance, but not so much that you can't do hundreds of reps. Pretty effective, and I could feel myself getting stronger and more balanced. It was practical power -- I could lift more things in real life, I could outmuscle my opponents more easily if needed, and I definitely had more energy. But I couldn't help noticing that Furey himself didn't look very ripped. I mean, no doubt he has practical strength and endurance, but he's kinda bloaty and funny looking.

Next stop: the physical regiment of Pavel Tsatsouline. Former Soviet special forces physical training instructor, cheesy sense of humor (a good thing in my world), promises practical strength and looks chiseled. Not big, but every muscle looks like it's made of high-tension steel cabling -- the type used to hold up suspension bridges. His weightlifting system's pretty great -- strength without mass, or strength with mass: he shows you both, and I can attest that they work. (Admittedly, I'm not all that big, but I gave it a try and saw results in just two weeks. It was kind of scary, and since I had just wanted to add a little mass, I stopped.)

And his kettlebells -- a better cardio and endurance workout than hill running (my previous favorite), without the shin splints and knee pain.

So for a long time, my workout has consisted of a combination of (mostly) kettlebell workouts interspersed with high rep bodyweight exercises used for active recovery in between sets. Works so well, that while I was training at Renzo Gracie's Brazilian jujitsu school, I could usually survive randori free-sparring matches simply by wearing my opponents out and outmuscling them. More than a few higher belts would roll with me for a while, then ask to stop because they were simply too tired to continue. (I admit that this the only thing that saved me; my BJJ techniques suck.)

But the other day, I discovered Crossfit. I won't even bother trying to explain their regimen. Let's just say they take Pavel and Furey's stuff, and ramp it up a few levels. You can check it out yourself. But what got me were these videos they had of a few of their "standard" workouts.

Check out the workout they call Fran. The guy is admittedly impressive. But take a look at the girl. Note that she is using 115 pounds when it comes to the barbell. Not that much for a 3x8 workout, but insane for the reps she pulls through this. And look at those goddamn pullups! I can't even come close to completing that workout, and I doubt most of us could. Certainly I don't think 95 percent of the players in the MLB could, and they're "professional." Hell, a lot of NFL linebackers would have trouble with this workout.

And lest you think Annie was an outlier, here's Annie with two other women doing an insane routine they call Nasty Girls. I don't know for sure, but I don't know that I can do those ring muscle-ups at all. I can do pull ups and dips, but that transition is incredibly hard.

I like strong women. I like fit women. I'm aware that there are women who are more fit -- stronger, faster, more flexible, etc. than I am. But I've never seen women who could dominate me (not in that kinky way, pervert) so thoroughly. It's a bit emasculating. Yet, these girls are hot. Weird paradox.

Fuck You Dr. Chang

Older friends of mine remember this story:

About five years ago, I stopped freelancing and landed a full-time gig. The point of this is that I suddenly had health insurance again, so I went to see a doctor for a full on physical -- the first I'd had in years. I picked a doctor at random -- proximity to my apartment was the key factor here.

Long story short, the doctor turned out to be one who catered to the Chinese community -- he had nurses who could translate and speak in fluent Cantonese, as could he. A week after my physical, Dr. Chang called me and told me over the phone that while all was generally good, my cholesterol was a bit high and I should try to stay away from fatty and fried foods.

I have always believed that my Chinese genetic heritage meant that while I would not be playing basketball in the NBA, I would never need to worry about cardiovascular disease and cholesterol. Plus, fatty foods -- cooked and coated in butter, cheese, lard and cream, with plenty of salt, pepper and seasonings -- are my life. Asking me to stop eating fried chicken or spare ribs is like suggesting I stop farting for fun. It ain't going to happen.

My reflexive and immediate reaction to Dr. Chang's call was to tell him I thought he was a quack. Since he spoke to me in Chinese, I dredged up every foul curse I'd ever heard Chow Yun Fat (coolest Asian man alive) utter in his John Woo gangster movies and every rude insult that I'd heard Jackie Chan use in his earlier kung-fu comedy flicks (though he's cleaned up his act some, Jackie's jokes and language in his earlier films were definitely not for polite company) and applied them to him. I further told him I didn't think much of his doctoring skills (he was far fatter than I was) and told him I would not be seeing him again.

Fast forward five years. I've moved to New York, and kept my devotion to fried chicken, ribs, and macaroni and cheese, as well as hand-cut fries and Scottish butter shortbread. Recently, I got my first physical since I saw Dr. Chang. My wife, who restrains her gluttonous impulses far better than I, also got a physical -- full bloodwork, etc.

And my cholesterol level? To use my new doctor's words, "A-plus, with two gold stars to boot." He further explained that while my 205 number didn't seem that impressive, it was actually the best he'd ever seen because so much of that total 205 came from HDL -- the good type of cholesterol, and so little of it from LDL -- the bad stuff. In fact, my cholesterol was so good, it even beat my wife's.

Which goes to show you that I was right all along about the virtues of bacon and sausage. And also that Dr. Chang was a goddamn fucking quack.

Privacy

OK, I get it: you all think Tom Cruise is some weirdo in the grip of some cult, as if Scientology is any weirder or makes any less sense than any other religion. And you think it's weird that he's with a much younger woman, as if he's the first guy to ever date a girl half his age. Fuck, walk down Wall Street sometime, and I bet you any power banker over the age of 50 is fucking a 20 year old model.

But what is the big deal about people whining about no pictures having been taken of his newborn kid?? Is it so weird that a guy doesn't want the whole world, which is mostly comprised of morons, criminals and perverts (not that these three are mutually exclusive) ogling his child?? Would you let random people publish pictures of your newborn?

If, someday when I have a kid, some stranger repeatedly demands to see pictures of my kid, the first thing I will do is punch him (or her) (I know I don't hit women, but if my kid is involved, I'll break that rule). The second thing I will do is unleash a vicious punt to his groin. The third thing I will do is jump up as high as I can and land both feet on his knee. The fourth thing I will do is repeat that with his other knee. And the fifth thing I will do is kick him in the groin again. You get the idea.

Geez. And what kind of sickos are you that you want to see some random stranger's baby? It's not like you and [insert recent new celebrity parent here] are pals or anything. As long as the report is 10 fingers, 10 toes, mother and child doing well, shouldn't that be enough? Isn't that all we, as the public, are entitled to?

You'd think so ...

Reply: What Is A Martial Art?

Usually the responses this blog evokes come from friends with smart-ass remarks. Or spammers. Here's a real one, and one to which I've decided to respond. This guy read the posting, "Why Wing Chun Is My Martial Art." His reponse?

wing chun is about harmony and zen bushism, not being an asshole or giving the finger. You will not understand it until you understand this.

OK. I'll admit the posting was written a bit tongue in cheek. But this writer, "Zentelligent," is absolutely wrong. He could not possibly be more wrong.

Still, I did mis-speak in that posting. Wing chun in practice is not about being an asshole. It's about being a bigger asshole than the guy you're fighting. (Both guys in a fight are already assholes.)

Wing chun is most certainly NOT about harmony and Zen Buddhism, as "Zentelligent" suggests.You know why? Because the term "martial art" is a misnomer. There's no art to wing chun. Art is subjective. Art is Renoir and Picasso, and who can definitively determine which is better?

Wing chun is a fighting method. A fascinating, sophisticated fighting method, and if I say "my wing chun is better than yours," and you disagree, we can settle it definitively with a fight. The person who can walk away wins the argument. There's no subjectivity involved.

You want harmony? Go to therapy. (I hear it can do wonders.) You want Zen Buddhism? Go see a monk. You only want to get fit? Go to a gym or do some yoga. Self-discipline? Join the Marines. Self-confidence? Grow a set.

Wing chun will teach you to fight. To hit the other guy as many times as you can, as fast as you can, and as hard as you can, until the other guy falls down, while simultaneously keeping the other guy from hitting you. That's it. That's all. It's that simple.

In truth, Zentelligent's response is typical of those who are destroying the purity and beauty of the "martial arts." I can't tell you how enraged I get every time some talkinghead media idiot writes that "X style of martial arts is not about fighting or self defense. It's about self confidence/respect/discipline." Blah blah blah.

Every martial art started out as a fighting method. A bunch of guys wanted to NOT get killed or beat up and came up with a method that they tested, and if it worked, they survived to pass it down. There's no philosophy involved. There's nothing deeper than that.

What I just said about wing chun holds true for all "martial arts." It's just that wing chun is more honest about fighting being all about being an asshole, to such an extent that it comes out in our tactics and techniques. Name a style, and I can point to a bloody, violent origin. Tai Chih was developed to kill raiders and bandits. Shaolin quan was developed because monks were tired of being robbed. Karate? A peasant-class response to tyranny. Escrima? So Filipinos could kill invading Spaniards. Even judo, which thinks of itself as not that warlike, was developed with combat in mind. The idea behind judo was that jujitsu had become ineffective because they just sat around talking about their theoretically deadly techniques that they couldn't actually practice in a "live" setting. (That stuff about self cultivation is just what they told the public to assuage the government and get taxpayer funding.)

And, on a personal note to "Zentelligent": real Zen masters don't need to talk about how enlightened they are.

Names

I'm not sure about this, but I believe that I have a below-average number of acquaintances and friends in general. This is partly because I tend to be shy around people I don't know, and also because other people drain my energy; I recharge best when I'm just by myself. That means I don't go out of my way to meet people or add people to my circle of friends just for the sake of doing so. To add to all this, I have a pretty low tolerance for bullshit and stupidity. The end result is that if you're in my phonebook, you're either family or I really really think quite highly of you.

Still, when a friend and co-worker of mine named Christina left our formerly mutual place of employment a few weeks back, it somehow triggered a realization that for a guy who doesn't have a particularly huge list of acquaintances and friends, certain names pop up with surprising regularity -- more than basic probability can explain, I think.

A quick count, for instance, shows that in my life (going back to high school, anyway), I have been been friends with, had crushes on, or dated at least six girls named Christine or Christina.

Similarly, I have been friends with or had crushes on at least five girls with "Jean"-variant names (Jean, Jeannie, Jeannette, etc. etc.) (Never got to date any of those. I suppose Jean's are a bit more discerning and have better taste in guys.)

I've also had four friends named Rich or Richard.

I don't have a point I'm trying to make here. Just noting an oddity.

Why Wing Chun Is My Martial Art

When a Taiji master, proud of his rock solid stance, challenged Bruce Lee to try to push him out of it, Bruce walked over, punched him in the face and knocked out a tooth. Stunned, the Taiji master fell over as Bruce Lee looked at him and said, "I don't push. I punch. Maybe you should stop boasting."

When an "iron shirt" qigong master boasted on stage that he could withstand any blow to his body, noted wing chun practitioner William Cheung walked up and flicked a standard centerline punch to his body. When the "master" relaxed, William let out his real punch, knocking the wind out of the guy.

When noted bare knuckles no-rules challenge fighting champion Wong Shun Leung was asked if he thought he was the best fighter in the world, he said, "No, only the second best." Who was the best? "Don't know. Haven't met him yet."

And when noted wing chun practitioner Jason Lau worked as a bodyguard for a Saudi prince, he was fired because he had stolen his employer's Rolls Royce to take out a woman, then proceeded to total it.

I've studied (or at least dabbled in) eight different styles of martial arts. I tell a lot of people that the reason I stuck with wing chun is because Phil, my teacher, was the only martial arts teacher I'd ever known who thought that it was not only okay to drink alcohol, but encouraged it; who had no problem telling an incredibly tasteless joke; and who believed that a martial art is, indeed, for fighting.

These are all true. But the fact is, when I fight, I'm an asshole. Everyone in a fight is, if they're honest with themselves. And wing chun is the perfect art for assholes. Every move is not just a defense or an attack, but a pugilistic way of giving your opponent the finger. We don't defend and then counter, we attack at the same time. Sometimes, our defense is a punch up the middle. It's our way of saying, "You fucking pussy. This is how little I think of your attempts at attack." We face our opponent because we can't fucking be bothered to get into a proper "fighting stance." And when we encounter an obstruction to our attack, we slap the offending limb out of the way and continue it without pause. "Get the fuck out my way and take this punch like you like it, bitch!" is the metaphorical expression that we're conveying. Our answer to just about any problem is to punch. Sure, there are nicer, more ethical or moral ways to defend ourselves. We just don't care to, because by the time a conflict's descended into physical violence, ethics, morals and niceness have long fallen along the wayside, so why not let it all hang out?

No other martial style, provides such a frame work that allows a practitioner to be an asshole -- even as compared to the average guy assholish enough to get into a fight in the first place. In this sense, practitioners of all other arts are deluding themselves into thinking there's such a thing as a "nice" fighter."

God, I love wing chun.

On Fitness

Lately, my cousin Vapid has dedicated himself to the study of various Chinese martial arts -- Taiji and Baguazhang in particular -- with a fervor that matches and possibly exceeds mine at the height of my training in Wing Chun. And another cousin, Colin, has become a fairly competent student of the arts in his own right. This prompted my mother to ask me recently what the appeal was. What, she wanted to know, drove us to participate in such a low-class, useless, time-wasting activity? For that matter, she wanted to know why I was so dedicated to working out?

After all, she continued, no one else in our family ever needed to fight, and plenty of Asian Americans of my generation are perfectly happy devoting themselves to nothing but hitting the books.

Well, though mom will never read this, here's my answer:

I do it for Lily Chin.

Lily Chin is perhaps better known as the mother of Vincent Chin.

In the early 1980s, Japanese cars were proving themselves to be far superior to anything beind made by their American counterparts, and tons of American autoworkers were being laid off. A lot of racist, irrational anger was directed at the Japanese, and on one summer evening, Vincent Chin was mistaken by two autoworkers as Japanese and beaten to death with a baseball bat. He was 27 and just days away from getting married.

The two autoworkers never served a day in jail for Chin's murder, and a heartbroken Lily Chin eventually moved back to China, unable to continue living in a country that valued her son's life as $3,780 in fines.

My point is not that Chin might have been able to defend himself had he been in better shape. True, he might have made better judgement calls during the course of what would be the last night of his life, but by the time he was cornered in that parking lot, he would have had to be a very lucky and very skilled fighter to escape.

Vincent's death is credited with galvanizing the disparate groups of Asian Americans to unite into a single, pan-Asian movement (or at least a more tightly knit group), who believed that Lily Chin's failure to get justice for her murdered son was due to a lack of organization and experience in working the legal system on the part of Asian community groups.

They're right, on the surface. But on a far more visceral level, Vicent's killers got away scot free because Asian Americans are generally regarded as too meek, quiet and physically frail to make any trouble. The impression is that you can push us around and walk all over us because we'll just sit there and take it. And they're right.

It's true that violence is often not the best solution to conflict. But it is also true that the typical Asian American male's physical frailties makes people more likely to bully them and makes them more willing to take it.

I started training martial arts at a fairly early age, and though I wasn't actually all that good back then, it gave me the confidence to think I could hold my own in a fight. In my high school, the Asians were often the target of racial insults and bullying, and because I thought I had a little something in my hip pocket, I didn't really believe in taking that kind of shit. That meant I got into quite a few fights in the early days of high school; most of the time I won, sometimes I lost. In the beginning, I would attack instantly if I heard the words "chink," "slant-eye," or "gook" -- even if they weren't directed at me. But I found that when the principal would come and ask who had started the fight, the other Asians in the crowd would never back my side of the story. "I didn't see anything," and "I don't know," were the fearful responses coming out of their quivering mouths. They were too scared to even speak up in support of the guy who had tried to come to their defense.

Of course, all kids learned to adapt. I stopped fighting on their behalf, and they learned to pretend that it was funny when some gwailo punk yelled "chink" and shoved their books out of their hands or dropped something foul in their lunch.

The weakness of these kids made me nauseous. To this day, the sight of some skinny, frail antisocial FOB Asian infuriates me, and reminds me again that I never want to be like that. I think if they'd only get themselves to a fucking gym, they'd walk with the confidence not to be an embarassment to us all. These days, I see more and more of my fellow fobulous Asians getting into shape -- and learning social skills to boot!

Maybe, just maybe, if we as a demographic had started ignoring our parents' advice and learning to work out and socialize a little earlier, Lily Chin wouldn't have died such a heartbroken woman.

Summer Delights and Other Things

Every heterosexual male is an ogler. And if you're such a person living in the Northeastern United States, you rejoice every spring when warmer weather causes women to throw off their ugly Ug boots, baggy corduroys, and puffy down coats and don their more revealing outfits. Who among us does not rejoice at the appearance of a beautiful (or at least mildly attractive) girl in a skirt (and it's much tastier cousin, the mini and ultra-mini skirt), the strappy ultra high-heel hooker shoe, and the tight tank top or tube top or even T-shirt?

Perhaps the one article of clothing that stirs the most imagination is the tight white T-shirt. I need not explain why, but it occurs to me that we hear far fewer raves about the sheer white cotton or linen slacks. Yet the potential here is obvious -- and indeed, it is greater than the potential delights that await the hot girl in a white T-shirt. You see, many women don't realize (or maybe they do?) that even "workplace appropriate" white summerweight slacks allow us men to see what kind of underwear they're wearing. And since white cotton panties are considered gauche, what women often wear to work (at least in the Financial District) are nice, lacy, dark colored panties. Thongs (no VPL, you see.) So with the advent of summer, especially since white is in this year, my walk to work is highlighted by sight after sight of lacy thong, and ah, if it happens to rain -- so much more revealing than the white T-shirt.

What's the impetus for this posting? This morning, a lovely girl wearing such slacks dropped her checkbook in front of me. Of course I looked. And as she bent over, I realized that this time, I could discern her ... shaving habits. And she was quite the fastidious girl. Know what I mean?

Ah, summer in the City.

****

You know what residents of New York City, Chicago and Boston have in common? They all get screwed by their respective state governments. I think these cities should secede from their respective states. In each case, city residents pay the bulk of the state's income tax revenues -- far more than their fare share, yet get far less than their per capita share of state services. Yet without Chicago, Illinois would just be Indiana, New York State would just be New Jersey (maybe less smelly) and Massachusetts would just be Maine (all the redneck incest-loving hicks, but without the access to the ocean and fresh lobster). These cities don't need their respective states, and it's high time someone realized it.

****

My obsession with watches is lessening to a slow simmer. I recently bought what for me is the ideal watch, at least until we get above the $1,000 price range. My new purchase is the Marathon "SAR" watch. It has all the features I want in a watch:

• Toughness. The case is carved from a single block of surgical grade steel, the bracelet is solid steel (and not folded or hollow), and it features an extra-thick sapphire crystal for top-notch scratch resistance and shatter-resistance. Plus, its rated safe at depths of up to 300 meters.
• Practicality. In addition to being a tough divers watch, the dial is simple and unadorned in true military style for maximum legibility. Night luminescence is almost as good as that of my Seiko Black Monster, the standard bearer in that department. And the bezel is derived from the Ruhla design, a divers watch used by the East German military.
  
• Collectibility. The Marathon SAR was the official issued watch of the Canadian Coast Guards Search and Rescue Dive team, as well as NASA divers. As such, a limited number (200) were made each year from 2001 to 2005, and only the surplus could be sold to us civilians. (Both groups have since switch to an updated Marathon watch that features the same construction but the tritium gas tube luminescence system that is more commonly seen on the Luminox line of Navy SEAL watches.)
• COSC levels of accuracy. Considered the de facto standard of quality for a mechanical watch, this one easily exceeds those standards, average about +3 seconds a day.

All this for one fifth the price of a fucking Rolex. A better, rarer, tougher, more attractive watch at 20 percent of the price.

The next time I buy myself a watch, it will be the UTS Munchen 3,000 meter PVD diver. Like this one, only in matte black. But at $3,400, that won't be for years to come.

Wimmin

Three mini-postings about one of my fav'rite subjecs: wimmin'!

1. The letdown.

Recently, one of my cousins sent me a story about a grade school teacher in Florida is evidently in trouble with the school board because it turns out she is a member of the U.S. Bikini Team and a lingerie model. Seems the puritanical bureaucrats in this country don't really like the image of the wholesome schoolmarm sullied by images of the women teaching our children as sexual (oh so very sexual) beings. Here's what we're talking about:










Predictably, my cousin's remark is an understandable one: to wit, "Why the FUCK didn't I have teachers like this in MY high school?" This was the same reaction that millions of heterosexual American males had upon the arrest and subsequent conviction of Debra LaFave.

Millions of American women expressed their outrage at this woman taking advantage of her 14-year-old student by having sex with him repeatedly, bewailing the poor fate of this teenaged boy. Millions of American men, privately or not so privately, responded, "Yeah, if only MY high school years had been so tragic." I mean, if your this kid's mom, you're horrified. If you're this kid's dad, basically, you take him aside and say, "High five. How about I buy you some pot, a bottle of Jack Daniels right now so we can get the rest of your important life experiences out of the way and you can get on with the rest of your life, which will never be this cool again?"

But I digress. Although these reactions are obvious and common to any straight male, I suddenly remembered my high school French teacher, a woman I'll call Mrs. Miller. (Conveniently enough, her name was: Mrs. Miller.) Mrs. Miller wasn't quite as hot as Ms. LaFave or the Bikini Teacher -- she didn't have those beautiful clear eyes and that flaxen blonde hair and that beautiful bone structure. She did, however, have the body of a fitness instructor, which was understandable since she moonlit as an aerobics instructor. Since, as a horny high school teen, I was willing to fuck a much uglier class of wimmin, you can see clearly that I would have gouged out my right eye for a chance to plow the Miller fields. French class was unintelligible to me because the General was always standing at attention, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Alas, it was not to be.

Near the end of my college years, I heard through the grapevine that Mrs. Miller got a divorce. And a few years after graduation, I heard her voice calling, "Bonjour, DrunkenPigBoxer!" while I was at home for a visit and picking up a few things at a grocery store. The General snapped to attention as I turned around to look at Mrs. Miller. She was divorced! I was a hip, happening man and no longer her student! I'd make her see what she'd been missing all those years back!

And as I gave her that automatic once over all men give all women, the General wilted in dismay. For time had not been kind to Mrs. Miller. Her face, which had always looked acceptable thanks to generous amounts of makeup, had aged beyond Revlon's ability to hide it. And she clearly had quit her gym membership a few months back and the Twinkies were beginning show. Just a bit. But enough to make the General sputter in confusion: "What the fuck? Where's the French hottie? I didn't snap to attention for a soon-to-sag! Fuck this, I'm going back to bed!"

The resulting conversation hopefully sounded normal to Mme. Miller, but to me, it was incredibly, incredible awkward and I couldn't wait to leave the store with my supersized bag of heaven.

Moral of the story? There is a downside to having a hot teacher in high school, especially since you're probably not going to be so luck as to bang her. The inevitable disappointment of seeing the immediate decline of your adolescent beat-off fantasy.

2. Speaking of old fantasies ...

So in high school and early college, my "type" of girl was the pale, dark-haired goth chick. Over the years, my tastes have changed and become more eclectic. But last week, I decided to change my status as the only comic book fan who hasn't read "Sandman" yet and picked up the first volume. It's awesome, and deals with the adventures of the anthropomorphic incarnation of Morpheus -- aka the Sandman -- King of the Dreamworld. Morpheus and his relatives all rule over various mythological aspects of life.

Lo and behold, it turns out Morpheus is related to Death --a cheerfully quirky and morbid (of course) Goth chick:














Maybe dying won't be such a bitch after all.

3. Yep, it still works.

Today at work I had to call one of our affiliate offices in Lexington, Kentucky. The nice receptionist answered the phone with clear, mellifluous voice and a Southern belle accent had my third leg growing and the rest of me melting into a puddle.

I tried to figure out how I developed this Pavlovian reaction to a female with a Southern accent. I'm guessing it's a combination of Daisy Duke and my experience one night in Dallas. You see, Southern girls are so genteel and charming they make you feel good even when they're rejecting you. I swear, even as they were telling me that they didn't want to spend the evening giving me beejers and were actually not that turned on by my rented Ford Focus on the parking lot, they would bend down, show me some extreme cleavage and blow in my ear before giving my crotch a squeeze. No, this was not in a strip club. And no, this was not just one girl. It happenned all night. Fuck, if I had hit on two more girls, I could have gotten enough crotch grabs to cumulatively call it a handjob.

So yeah. Southern girls. Delicious.

True Stories

I cannot confirm the veracity of this story:

The hot studly husband lay on the bed sleeping peacefully and happily when his wife walked in. With a preternatural warning, sensing his spouse's presence, he rolls over on his side facing away from her.

"Oh it's like that, is it? You don't love me any more?" she asks, amused.

"Nope."

"Fine." Setting a glass of water down on the nightable, she gets into bed.

At which point, a loud, audible release of gas is heard. Soon, a fragrance fills the room. "Oh, so not only do you not love me anymore, but you want to kill me, is that it?"

A blissful, relaxed smile shines from his face. Another release of gas is heard.

"Oh my god. I really am going to die tonight," she moans as she turns out the light.

finis.

Let me insist that I cannot attest to the veracity of this story, except to say that the man in question is, in fact, married and that he had, that day, consumed large amounts of nuts, cheese, garlicky food and beer.

Passover Lessons

If there's one thing I hate more than unions, its organized religion. So you can see why it was with some trepidation that I accepted my friend Josh's invitation this week to a Passover Seder. I tend to mouth off and say completely offensive and inappropriate things all the time, including times when I don't necessarily mean to, and since he informed me that Passover would involve drinking four glasses of wine (at least), I imagined that after that fourth glass, something completely wrong would come out of my mouth:

• "So, where are the pork chops?"
• "Now that that's done, you know what be great? Fetish porn!"
• "Or we could just make some porn with you girls right now! Anyone here have a camcorder?"

As it turns out, I managed to complete the evening without offending anyone. I think. I haven't talked to my host since then, and while it's likely that he's simply loaded down with work, it's also possible that Josh has decided to pretend he never met me.

But here's what I learned while attending my first Passover Seder:

• I don't care which New York deli you've visited, you haven't lived until you had a homemade version of matzo ball soup
• The Manischewitz family has much to atone for. That wine is horrible.
  
• The Seder, essentially a combination of a Jewish meal along with religious ritual and education all rolled into one, is quite beautiful. It's good to see people honoring their traditions and commemorating their history and trying to make the lessons within relevant to today's life. If all practices in Judaism are as heartwarming, meaningful and not-cloying as this one, it wouldn't be such a bad religion. Not like, say, Catholicism, which advocates child molestation, pedophilia and the practice of stuffing coathangers up women's cunts and rooting around. I'm talking about you, El Salvador.
  
• Of couse, I might have found the Seder more heartwarming simply because I was drinking so heavily throughout it. That's a clever tactic by whoever came up with the customs of a Seder. Get'em drunk and they'll be more receptive to sentimentality. Or maybe the excessive drinking is just Josh's contribution to the whole thing.
  
• There's a little symbol that you can find on wine labels that signifies kosherness. Is that a word? Anyway, just a random fact that isn't that useful to me, but I like random facts.
• Slivovitz is horrible, just horrible. It's a (kosher, of course) Hungarian plum brandy that has a turpentine-y taste that adds to a Manischewitz hangover and makes you nauseous because as you sweat the next day, that Slivovitz scent oozes out of your pores, making you smell like a hobo who's been boozing on ... well, turpentine. It was, on Josh's suggestion, my contribution to the evening.
  

It turns out that I did, in fact, make a joke about pork, now that I think about it. Something about how this was all very beautiful (I was quite drunk) and I'd consider converting (I said, I was drunk) if it weren't for that no-pork rule. At which point I was told that Reformist Jews do, in fact, allow the eating of pork. I wonder how they feel about crab and lobster.

And I did, in fact, learn something else that's useful. As I do whenever I'm in NYC and the subject of Judaism comes up, I ask those present about whether they know of a truly old-school Jewish deli that still serves schmaltz as a condiment or appetizer. As a condiment, schmaltz is an herbed, liquified chicken fat that you (I've heard) use in much the same way you might pour gravy on mashed potatoes or ketchup on a sandwich; as an appetizer, it is chicken skin wrapped around a little ball of spiced chicken fat, that is then deep fried. Oh sweet imagined rapture! Until now, my queries have been unsuccessful -- in fact, few people even know what I'm talking about. But this time, a girl at the dinner told me that one such place does exist, just west of Times Square in a hotel restaurant, of all places! I can't remember where she said it was exactly (one more time: I was drunk), but I can always call Josh and ask him to ask her.

Plus, Josh said he needs to get laid and since she was pretty cute, this gives him an excuse to call her up again.

It occurs to me that perhaps this Seder involved more drinking that was strictly necessary (though I was assured that four full glasses of wine are mandatory for all adults, regardless) since Josh and many of his guests were of college age. (There were a couple guests who had been in the post-college working world for a while, but mostly these were collegiates.) But it was nevertheless great.

Saving the World

Just my random thoughts on how to make the world a better place:

The Environment
I bet we could get a lot more people interested in cleaning up the environment if we just made them listen to John Denver songs. The ones I would focus on are "Sunshine On My Shoulders," "Rocky Mountain High," and "Take Me Home Country Roads." Anyone who hears any of these songs is guaranteed to be inspired to protect the forests and the trees and the rivers and oceans and the critters and ... Well, let's put it this way: I'm a city boy. I have fun hiking and doing outdoorsy things, but I never once considered moving to a cabin in Colorado -- until I watched a John Denver retrospective on PBS. The man's a genius on the level of Mozart or Rodgers & Hammerstein: pure beautiful melodies that are so simple and basic that you might think, "Any moron could write this song." So why didn't you?

Non-violence.
I have an surefire way to reduce violence between men: squadrons of hot chicks in slutty outfits. The other day I was walking down the street and coming toward me was a Guido that I normally would sneer at and beat the shit out of at the slightest provocation. And the feeling, I'm sure, was mutual. But then we both noticed a hot chick in biker shorts and a sports bra finishing her ride right across the street -- all blonde and sweaty and tight and toned. And when we both realized the other guy had seen the chick, we exchanged a grin and noverbally communicated the following profound concept: "Man, I wouldn't mind getting me some of that." I bet if we got some hot scantily clad chicks walking down the street in the Palestinian territories -- or anywhere in the Middle East, for that matter -- the conflict would stop as the Jews, the Shiites, the Sunnis, the Christians would all just stare and immediately realize they all have something in common. Hell, it would be almost instantaneous, because we all know those poor guys don't get much gawking time when they're out in public. (and yes, I know this isn't an original idea: see the shower scene in "Undercover Brother" for a similar suggestion.)

That's all.

Whining

People who know me know that I can come across sometimes as extremely cold and unsympathetic. "Shut your hole and suck it up," is one of my favorite phrases, and one that often applies to myself when I catch myself acting like a mopey wuss. Because most people in this country -- including at least 80 percent of those people on public aid and welfare -- could make better lives for themselves. They're just too lazy or selfish to do so.

There are people in my life who have done so. But their stories are private.

Here's a family that proves my point. They came to the United States as illegal immigrants. They became legal citizens. They supported themselves largely by going through other people's garbage to find recyclable cans and bottles -- scavenging 365 days a year for decades at a time, and putting three children through college. And not once have they ever applied for public aid or welfare.

Contrast that to all those people on welfare who can't pay rent because they spent it on crack, and who continue to add to their problems by having kids that they can't take care of and end up abusing. People who grew up in this country and were born with the advantage of knowing the language and having a free public education.

And here's a guy who has no arms, legs -- or even elbows or knees. Yet he was a champion wrestler in high school and college and is now training to compete in the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Contrast Kyle to every fat person out there who whines about how they can't lose weight or get in shape. For fuck's sake. This guy has no forearms and he can still bench press 360 pounds.

So when you wonder why I refuse to give money to a homless person on the street? It's because I know that they're there because it's their fault. And that they could do better if they wanted to -- without my help. And they won't ever improve their lives, whether or not I help them, until they decide they want to.

And to be perfectly fair, I'm as bad as these whiners. I could have done so much better with my life, considering the advantages I've been given. And that's why, if any of you ever hear me whining about my life, please. Just kick me in the balls as hard as you can.

Violence, Violence, and Women

First the serious stuff. A month ago in New York City, a pretty 25-year-old graduate student in criminology, Imette St. Guillen, disappeared after a night of heavy drinking from a bar in Manhattan’s Soho/Lower East Side neighborhood, only to be found days later on a desolate stretch of a remote Brooklyn road. She had been raped, beaten and murdered, and the prime suspect now appears to be a bouncer at the bar where she was last seen alive, an ex-con with a history of violence who apparently had been asked by the bartender to throw St. Guillen out.

There’s no doubt that this is a tragedy, and not unexpectedly, the spectacle of a young pretty woman with a bright smile and sparkling eyes being the victim of a brutal crime has led to a number of kneejerk reactions from New York-area lawmakers. One City Council proposal calls would remove a prohibition on off-duty NYPD officers to work as bouncers or security in uniform on their off hours, an act so incredibly stupid that the police commissioner himself rejected it out of hand: such a law would directly contradict an existing state law that bars cops from having any economic ties – including employment – with a bar. You’d think a city lawmaker would know better than to propose something that clashes with state law – a law that actually makes sense, by the way, since the potential conflicts of interest are obvious and plentiful.

But the stupider law is one that would mandate that any NY bar install security cameras at their entrances/exits. The rallying cry – especially popular with young pretty women interviewed on the street for some reason – is that this would prevent young upwardly mobile pretty girls from ever being raped and murdered again. As if the reason Imette was killed because nobody saw her leaving the bar.

You know how Imette’s murder could have been prevented? It could have been prevented if Imette’s friend hadn’t left her obviously drunk companion to fend for herself after a night of drinking at 3 a.m. and instead looked after her. And most of all, it could have been prevented if Imette herself hadn’t gotten herself so sloshingly drunk in public. I mean, this woman had to be thrown out of a Lower East Side bar. You know how incredibly fucked up beyond recognition you have to be to get thrown out of a bar in that neighborhood? Head down there any weekend night and there are loud inebriated young people staggering around, puking, screaming, giggling, fornicating, etc. The fact that she was causing a disturbance bigger than that means that she was worse off than they.

Imette wasn't killed because nobody saw her leave or saw the bartender with his hands on her. She was killed because previously she had made such a total ass of herself that everyone who did see her leaving or being thrown out thought, "What a total moron. What a killjoy. Good riddance."

That's a terrible thought, isn't it? But hindsight is a luxury; if you'd been there, you probably would have thought the same thing.

You’d think a graduate student of criminology would be more aware of crime prevention techniques. Then again, a lot of doctors are fat, chain-smoking, out-of-shape lushes, too. Ever since Rudy Giulliani cleaned up New York and made it safer and cleaner, people have been getting careless about living in the big city. This might explain why Imette and thousands of young people (especially women) on any given night can be found so drunk/wasted/high/whatever in public that they are essentially helpless and completely vulnerable to any sicko who comes along and realizes that this is his lucky day. But boys and girls, this is still one of the largest cities in the world, and that means there are a lot of violent, amoral sickos here and you can’t afford to ever let your guard down. Ever.

In the meantime, this so-called Imette’s Law will only give barhoppers yet another layer of false security that won’t actually make them safer.

*****

The Wall Street Journal has an article about how the Ultimate Fighting Championship is becoming more popular than boxing in Las Vegas – both in terms of audience size and corporate sponsorship and advertisers. Boxing promoters are blaming society for this: we have become so inured to violence thanks to videogames and movies that we demand more violence and brutality from our combat sports, and that’s what the UFC delivers.

Which just goes to show out of touch boxing promoters are with reality. First of all, boxing is inherently more dangerous and more brutal than mixed martial arts. There is a common misperception that the thinner gloves used by MMA fighters make for a more brutal bout. In one sense, this is true: you’re more likely to get instantly knocked out with the thinner gloves in place. But a boxer’s punches do more lasting damage because the thicker gloves add exactly one pound to their hands, and thus each blow, while it doesn’t have as sudden an impact on a fighter’s head (thus not as likely to cause a knockout), has more of an impact (and thus causes more permanent damage).

In both raw occurrences and as a percentage of bouts fought, there have more deaths in the boxing ring than there have been in MMA fights. One reason is that an MMA bout is often won by submission through a choke or lock. But the main reason is simply that MMA places more emphasis on safety. In the UFC or in Pride, the moment it becomes obvious that a fighter is in trouble – he’s no longer capable of meaningfully defending himself, or a wound he receives is deemed to be too severe, the referee stops the fight. Not so in boxing, where a fighter who is clearly dazed and doesn’t know what’s going on is allowed keep fighting as long as he’s still on his feet. You have only to watch the post-Rumble in the Jungle fights of the great Muhammad Ali to see this in action. A lot of times, an MMA referee would have stopped those fights way before the fifteenth round or KO. And no matter how much Ali or his doctors blame Parkinson’s disease for his current physical disabilities, everyone knows that really, Ali just has a severe case of punch drunkenness that never would have occurred if the refs cared about fight safety.

But I digress. The reason why the public likes the UFC more than boxing is because
a) It’s more real. No one can figure out how a boxer really moves up in rank and gets a shot at the title, and no one really believes the fights aren’t all fixed. The presence of organized crime is still strong in boxing and the public knows it.
b) The fighters are almost always gentlemen. Listen to a UFC champ being interviewed. He’s gracious, polite, clearly intelligent. Fit for normal society. Even the mohawked, tattooed Chuck Liddell comes across as a guy you’d like to have a beer with. Then listen to a modern-day boxer. Most of the time, the impression you get is that if this guy couldn’t make money by boxing, he’d be out mugging little old ladies or knocking off convenience stores. Half the time the boxers actually have done those things. See: Mike Tyson. (I know, there are exceptions – Evander Holyfield comes to mind. But he’s the exception to the rule.)

But boxing promoters just don’t get it.

****

Women are frightful fighters. In New York, the subway is a common scene of violent or near-violent conflicts – screaming matches, threats of beatdowns, etc. I’ve been involved in a couple myself.

When the situation involves two guys, it’s pretty basic. An argument about personal space or shoving leads to threats of violence, shouted curses, and perhaps some shoving. It’s simple, easy to understand, and when it’s over, it’s over. There’s usually a bunch of other people there to break things up before they get too serious.

The other day, two women got into it. At first it started like an argument between two guys. Before long, it had dissolved into shoving, and bystanders separated the two women. Now, if it had been two men, it would have ended right there – sullen silences or an agreement to take care of it outside. But the two women kept shouting at each other. And the argument quickly veered away from personal space into other matters.

Woman #1: I didn’t do nuthin’ you fuckin’ bitch. I was just standin there, puta
Woman #2: You knew what you were doin’ you knew you knew you were in my space, I said excuse me two times and you kept shoving. I’ll kick your ass, bitch!
W1: No, I gonna kick your ass
W2: Whatever. Just ‘cause you think you got your man there to take care of you. He ain’t nuthin’, just some fat trash, I kick his ass too
W1: Least I got a man, ho
W2: Least I ain’t no crack whore, you crazy ass bitch smokin’ that shit
W1: I don’t smoke that shit, you can’t say I smoke crack
W2: Whatever, ho, you know I don’t do crack, and you just an ugly ho
W1: Yeah, I got some good juicy pussy here, you watch out or I’ll roll it up over you
W2: Like hell you do
W1: yeah, I’ll smear my fat pussy all over your face and roll it on top of you
W2: No, my pussy’s juicy, you ain’t got nuthin’ …

Etc. etc.

So to sum up: conflict between two guys:

Step 1: Arguments about the conflict at hand
Step 2: Curses, threats
Step 3: Sullen silence or violence or promise/agreement to administer violence at a more convenient location.

An argument between two women:

Step 1: Arguments about conflict at hand
Step 2: Insults, curses, more insults
Step 3: Violence
Step 4: More insults about hygiene, personal habits
Step 5: Remarks about love life
Step 6: Threats of violence
Step 7: Insults regarding sexual organs, size and moistness thereof
Step 8: Violence
Step 9: Scatological warfare
Step 10: Insults about shoes
Step 11: More insults about shoes
Step 12: Insults about how shoes don’t match up with vaginas
Step 13: Vaginas, crack, shoes, crack, pussy, shit, shoes, crack
Step 14: ???

Counterpoint: Bode Miller

So Bode Miller's catching a lot of flak these days because he

1. drank and partied his way through the Olympics
2. failed to medal
3. didn't live up to the hype

Bode's critics believe that he should have gotten a good night's rest and curtailed his partying ways during the Games and that his failure to do so is the reason that he underperformed and let us down. They use alot more words, but the criticism can generally be summarized by my Vapid cousin's latest post.

Well, I don't think much of Bode, but I'm in his corner on this one, and so is anyone who actually skis for fun. I think he did the right thing, and here's why:

Bode has never been a skier in the mold of the ultra-disciplined Germanic variety. (See my post about nutty Germans.) Instead, he's a New England ski bum. Even a casual skier has seen scads of them on any given winter on the slopes. They're usually drunk or hungover, they often have a cigarette dangling precariously from their lips, and they tear down the slope recklessly, at breakneck speeds, and in a wild, barely controlled fashion. Obnoxious? Yes. Dangerous? Yes. But having tried it once (in a less competent fashion), I can attest to the fact that it's really fun.

But I digress. How is Bode Miller different from these ski bums? Yes, he's an Olympian and a World Cup champion. But really -- he's just like any of those idiots, except he's stronger and perhaps more reckless and therefore had more success. His form and his personality -- both on and off the mountain -- are just as wild and undisciplined. I would argue that to change the formula that brought him to his present level of success -- any of it -- would be stupid and foolhardy.

Plus, all that hype about Bode? Really a recent media invention. In-the-know ski enthusiasts have always known that Bode was never a reliable skier. The same wild style that sometimes lets him get down the mountain at incredibly fast speeds also means that Bode is every bit as likely to wipe out spectacularly or ski off course. Bode is popular at ski races because he's entertaining -- not because he dominates. And he also didn't win World Cup because he reliably won races (or even finished them) but because he accumulated a lot of points because he races so often.

But in the end, here's why Bode had it right: at the very elite levels of skiing, the difference between first place and fourth place is often a matter of hundreths of seconds. A stray snowdrift or ice patch can add a whole second to your time. Which means luck is going to play as much of a role in the medal rounds as an extra few hours of sleep. Bode put it best: Daron Rahlves did the "right thing" and stayed in -- and he, too, failed the medal despite all expectations. But Bode got to meet all those people and had all that fun.

If I had to walk away from the Olympics without a medal, I'd at least want some good partying memories and some new friends as compensation.

Either the Germans Are Insane, or Rolex is a Major Ripoff

If you hadn't already guessed, this post is about watches, so if you're not interested, then just surf somewhere else.

So since the last time I blogged about my wristwatch obsession, my opinions have changed a little bit. I no longer have a wishlist of watches, because I realized that what I currently wear now is actually as good as most of the mid-priced watches that were once on my list. But more on that later.

The point is, even though I have no intention of blowing a whole bunch of money on a watch collection, I still keep an eye out on what's out there, browsing the forums and all that. Watches are cool. But with the exception of my "holy grail" watch, nothing ever strikes me as being so cool as to make me want to trade in my beloved Seiko Black Monster for it.

Still, occasionally, something comes up that blows my mind. The UTS Professional Divers' watch for instance. This is a watch made by a German engineer who became a watch enthusiast.

The thing about the Germans is that once they get into any hobby, they really really get into it. For instance, take birdwatching. In the United States, being a birdwatcher means that you might take a trip into a local forest where you know a certain type of beautiful bird is likely to be seen on the weekends. You'll set up a little base camp, pull out your binoculars, and try to spot as many cool species of birds as you can. But a German birdwatcher will often target a single bird -- not a species, mind you, but a single bird. He'll catch it, put a radio tag on its leg, and set it free. And then he'll spend the entire next year following it. Not just on the weekends. No, he'll suspend his life -- work, family, non bird-watching friends -- and follow Tweetie around.

Or take the martial arts. In most parts of the world, getting into the martial arts on a casual basis means that you find a school you like -- usually located in a cheap storefront or in a slightly rehabbed warehouse or some guy's garage. You go into class to train two to four times a week for a couple hours each time, and maybe you practice at home if you have a spare moment. (Unless you decide to go professional and become a full-time teacher or competitor, anyway.) But German practitioners of wing chun built a castle. And they will often spend months on end living there and training day in and day out. Not because they're going to be professional teachers or fighters or anything. But just because.

That German tendency to take their hobbies to the level of goddamn insanity is what has brought Herr Spinner to create the UTS-Munchen company, and in particular, the UTS Professional Diver.

A good-quality automatic divers watch generally combines a solid, dependable automatic watch movement (the gears and powering mechanism that actually make the hands keep time) with a uni-directional bezel for keeping track of elapsed time/air supply; and features meant to make the watch able to stand the huge external pressure it will be exposed to on a scuba dive (hardened scratch-resistant crystal; thick, solid steel case; screw-down crown). Most watches are considered good recreational divers watches if they are rated for depths of 200 meters (660 feet). This is well beyond the depth of any recreational dive (generally 100-200 feet), so the extra is for safety.

If you are a professional diver, in that you expect to go deeper to work on -- for instance -- underwater oil rigs, you might wear a watch rated up to 1000 meters. It's not that you'll go that deep. But you'll probably go below 600 feet, so you want your watch to be rated far more highly.

The UTS Professional Diver goes to 3,000 meters. That's nearly 10,000 feet -- close to two miles below the ocean's surface. I know of submarines that don't go that far down! What the fuck! In order to withstand such pressures, the case on this watch is made of such thickened steel that it's grown to a monstrous 16 milimeters thick -- over 0.62 inches, and with the solid steel-link bracelet, weighs almost half a pound. Doesn't seem that heavy until you remember that this is like having the weight of two Quarter Pounders strapped to your wrist. It's absolutely absurd, and yet it's just another example of German enthusiasm run totally amok.

I won't bore you with the rest of the watch's specs, which are all just about as insane as the case specifications. But the price for this monstrosity, this pinnacle of horological ruggedness and functionality -- and this brings me to the second point of this post, is $3,400.

A Rolex Submariner is $6,0o0. You know what the Submariner looks like -- even if you're not into watches. It's what you think of when you think of a dive watch. So you have to ask: is the Submariner nearly twice as good as the UTS?

The UTS has a movement that keeps time just as precisely; it's just as readable in the dark. However, the bezel is safer and more functional for divers, and its far more rugged. Oh yeah -- it goes 10 times as deep. Now I'm not saying you need all that. But if you can get all that for almost half of what you'd pay for a Rolex, why wouldn't you?

For that matter, let's take my watch, the Black Monster. The Monster is NOT as good a watch as a Rolex. It's only rated to 200 meters, as opposed to Rolex's 300 meters. The crystal is not the coveted, highly scratch resistant synthetic sapphire, but instead it's a patented mineral crystal formulation that comes pretty close. (For about $65, there are guys who can replace the stock crystal with a sapphire crystal just like the Rolex's). BUT. The Monster's bracelet is often rated as better -- more solid, more comfortable, more dependable. Its luminosity in low light conditions is universally acknowledged as brighter than Rolex's. Its diving bezel is about as good. And while it doesn't keep time quite as accurately as Rolex, it can be made to do so with just $50 and a week or two at a good watchmaker. And the best part? The Black Monster costs about 3 percent of what the stainless steel Rolex Submariner would cost. So nevermind whether or not the Rolex Submariner is a better buy than the UTS diver. It's not nearly as good a buy as the Seiko Black Monster, which costs 97 percent less but is at least 85 percent as good of a watch.

And if I chose to send my beloved Monster for a few custom mods, it would cost me about $120. Total cost for the revved up Black Monster: $300. That's five percent of what the Rolex costs. Yet mine would be as good or better in every way but one.

The only thing Rolex has going for it is an artificially inflated image. Let's face it: Rolex is the Britney Spears of watches. It's kinda nice looking, but once you look more closely, you realize that it's all hype and PR.

So are the Germans insane, or is Rolex a major ripoff?

Yes. And that's the last I'll ever have to say on wrist watches. Possibly.

Contractual Obligations

What do radical Islamists, advocates for illegal aliens, civil libertarians suing on behalf of "enemy combatants," and the Christian right have in common? The desire to expand the boundaries of a social contract.

The furor over editorial cartoons depicting the Muslim Prophet Muhammad has been described as a conflict between religious beliefs and the Western concept of freedom of the press. But both Islamic fundamentalists have made points that suggest that this is not really what it's about. Muslims feel that the freedom-of-the-press rationale is a thinly disguised cover for bias against Islam, pointing out that a cartoon that made a joke out about the Holocaust or featured anti-Semitic sentiments would never have made it onto the pages of any mainstream Western news publication. And they're right. But in their demand for an apology from Western governments -- entities that had nothing to do with the publication of the cartoons in question, they also demonstrate that they don't understand the difference between respect for a religion and a demand for obedience. As the German newspaper Die Welt put it (roughly), although we might respect Islam as a religion, but why do we, who aren't Muslim, have to obey its dictates and rules?

Why indeed. In fact, the conflict isn't about freedom of the press at all, and neither is it about respect for another religion's beliefs. It's a debate as to the boundaries of the social contract that guides all Western governments. I'm grossly oversimplifying here, but in an age of near-absolute monarchic power, where kings claimed their right to rule came from heaven or the Church -- some divine power, social contract theorists proposed that any government's right to rule came as a result of an unwritten social contract.

To wit: in a country or a group, there is an agreement that the masses will fulfill their duties and obey the laws as set down by the government -- even when it might be against their individual interests. In return for this submission, a government agrees to provide certain benefits -- defense against a common enemy, public welfare, protection from crime, etc. It is understood that if either side fails to fulfill his, her, or their obligations under this social contract, there will be consequences. A person who breaks the law in the United States, for example, can expect to go on trial and be fined, imprisoned, or, in extreme cases, executed. If some aspect of the U.S. government fails in its duty, however, it can expect to be changed: an elected official might be voted out of office, impeached, and face the consequences of a trial, while an inefficient agency might be dismantled.

(Each religion can be thought of as a group with a social contract. The clergy, in the name of some relevant divinity, sets down rules for the masses: Obey the dictates of your faith, and you will receive divine protection, worldly success in this life, and/or glory and rewards in the afterlife. The clergy, in return, get the satisfaction of being obeyed and material support (food, shelter, money, more money, etc.) Personally, I think the masses in any religion are getting the shit end of the deal in this type of contract, but that's a topic for another time.)

The general understanding regarding any contract -- social or otherwise -- is that the terms of the contract are only binding on the participants of that contract. When you buy something from the local Walgreens, you enter into a basic contract: if you give Walgreens $1.53, Walgreens will give you this stick of Chapstick or whatever. Only a looney would then demand that the grocery store next door chip in and give you a pack of gum, or give you back your money if the Chapstick is defective. And similarly, only a looney merchant would march over and demand that you also pay him for that Chapstick, right? Because the contract in question concerns only you and Walgreen's.

In terms of a social contract, it would seem clear that there are social contracts between religions clerics and their followers -- and no one else. There are social contracts between governments and their citizens -- and no one else.

But what radical Islamists, the Chrisitian evangelical right, illegal-alien rights activists, and advocates for "enemy combatants" all demand is that a third party take part in only one aspect of their respective social contracts. Reap the rewards without paying the price, or pay the price without the corresponding reward? Is it so difficult for these people to understand the concept of a contract?

Let's start with the most topical example: infuriated Muslims are demanding that everyone, Muslim or not, submit to their holy prohibition against the depiction of Muhammad -- whether in a satirical fashion or not. But why should anyone who is not Islamic be obligated to follow the laws of Islam? Remember that I'm not arguing about whether or not the cartoons were offensive -- but whether I, a non-Muslim, have any obligation to obey the dictates of Islam. Sure, it's offensive of me to suggest that the reason why Muslims don't eat pork is because Muhammad loved to fuck and molest pigs and didn't want people eating his lovers. And there's no way a Muslim would be allowed to say anything like that. But why can't I? I'm not going to get to go to Paradise when I die, and no imam will speak for me or comfort me if I'm in trouble.

In a similar fashion, Christian evangelicals like Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson always want us to follow the dictates of evangelical Christendom: stone the faggots, murder the abortion providers, post the Ten Commandments everywhere, pray everyday, etc. etc. But why should I? When I die, I won't be rewarded by going to Heaven, and God certainly isn't the one responsible for any good things in my life. I never agreed to be a Christian, so why I should I obey any of the dictates of the Bible? I think God has much to answer for, and if I had my way, he'd be tortured and abused for all eternity for all the wrongs He's wrought. FUCK GOD UP THE ASS WITH A DUNG COATED BROKEN BOTTLE, I say.

But it's not just about religion. There are those who think we should provide government medical care and free billingual education to illegal aliens, that illegal aliens deserve civil liberties, welfare aid and even driver's licenses, from the U.S. government. Well, why?? The social contract in the United States is between the government and its citizens. Did these aliens swear allegiance and loyalty to the United States of America? Do they pay taxes? Have they agreed to obey U.S. laws? Are they serving in the U.S. military? No? Then they've never fulfilled their part of the social contract or demonstrated that they intend to. If I go into Best Buy and refuse to pay, I don't get to take home a new laptop computer! Why does an illegal alien get to come in and reap government benefits when he or she hasn't done anything in return? I know, a lot of people will insist that they have done something in return -- picked our produce, cleaned the houses of our rich, cooked the food in our restaurants, etc. That's a contract between the alien and his/her employer. He got paid for those services and that's all he deserves for them.

And the same thing goes for "enemy combatants." Many people think these prisoners deserve the same rights as those who have been accused of civilian crimes. But those rights were explicitly guaranteed in our Constitution to citizens. I can see my way to extending those rights to permanent residents -- people who have stated their intent to become citizens and agreed to fulfill the terms of the corresponding social contract. But I doubt the guys that were captured fighting against U.S. troops in Afghanistan or Iraq ever agreed to such terms.

Of course, there are those that cite the Geneva Conventions as the source of these detainees' rights. Well, the same argument applies. The Geneva Conventions imply a social contract: act in a certain way in times of war -- wear a uniform, salute officers of the opposing side, avoid attacking civilians, etc. Those detainees have violated so many parts of the Conventions that I don't understand how they have the brazenness and gall to claim protection from them.

I guess we can go back to the Greeks -- and Plato in particular -- for the answer to all these issues. "What is justice?" asks Socrates in Plato's Republic. After much debate, the great Socrates concludes that, in a nutshell, that justice is everyone minding their own fucking, goddamn business.

So go on. Fuck off. I got me some sausages to eat.

Dolph, We Hardly Knew Ye

So I was at my favorite clubhouse the other day (aka Barnes and Noble) and started perusing a find in the bargain bin about action movies. Paraphrased, here's some of what it said about B-movie action star Dolph Lundgren (Rocky IV, Punisher, Showdown in Little Tokyo):

"Although best known as a prime example of dumb, brute strength and rage, Dolph Lundgren is actually a highly intelligent man whose mental gifts were evident at an early age. He won a scholarship to the Royal Institute of Technology in Stockholm, Sweden, and went on to study at the University of Sydney at New South Wales -- earning Masters degree in Engineering. He continued his education, earning a prestigious Fulbright scholarship to study at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. It was during his tenure at MIT that he was discovered at a nightclub in New York City."

The obvious thoughts came to mind: don't judge a book by its cover, blah blah blah. Then I felt sorry for Dolph. I feel quite sure that Jean-Claude Van Damme is as stupid as he seems to be, so can you see how absolutely how frustrated and pissed off Dolph was when he realized he was working with the mental equivalent of a chimpanzee in Universal Soldier??

This Bus Never Broke Down

The greatest football team ever returned to its rightful place atop the National Football League this Sunday. And perhaps the best moment of that run came before the game even began: with Jerome Bettis, the heart, soul and backbone of the Pittsburgh Steelers running onto the field all by himself to precede the rest of his team. It was apropos, because Bettis exemplifies what the Steelers are: hard working, selfless, classy, tough. Ground and pound on the field, gracious and accessible off.

Why all the big fuss about Jerome?

• Because on the field, his prowess was undeniable. It was astounding and amazing to routinely see "The Bus" plow through a defensive line; often, there would be three or four linebackers hanging onto him and he would keep dragging them along.
• Because on the field, the sheer joy he got from the game was obvious. If the TV sound guys were on, you could often hearing him bounce up after a jarring play and say, with a big grin on his friendly face, "Yeah baby! That's what I like! Let's do it again!" (Meanwhile, his defenders would still be on the ground, shaking their heads in an effort to clear them.
• Because in high school, he was the epitome of a student athlete -- president of his high school's National Honor Society.
• Because he was a great teammate. Ask any Steeler, and they'll tell you how Jerome welcomed them to the team, made sure everyone had all his contact information so they could call him to talk about anything -- day or night.
• Because he was a great and loyal team player. When his stamina started to decline, he openly declared his desire to stay with the Steelers, and he put his money where his mouth was -- he took a pay cut so the team could afford to keep him on. And when they asked him to play a supporting (non-starting, non-starring) role, Bettis genuinely appreciated the opportunities he got to contribute (and boy, did he continue to contribute.) Not a single word of complaint, jealousy, or showboating.
• Because his graciousness with the throngs of adoring fans that constantly surrounded him was legendary, even though it surely must have been annoying at times.
• Because he gave back to his community -- both Pittsburgh and Detroit -- tirelessly. Unstintingly. And without fanfare. Not because it was expected of him. But because he wanted to -- he didn't just make a monetary donation and call it a day, he put in his time and effort.
• Because his graciousness with the media -- who can be even more annoying -- was such that he even won them all over, without exception.
• Because he came back for one more glorious year.

As everyone knows, this game was about one person: Jerome Bettis, who's done everything right in his career. He displayed awesome abilities on the field; he demonstrated a fierce, but gracious competitive spirit; and he exemplified a generosity of spirit that led him to earn the love of his teammates, his fans, his community and now, the rest of the world.

After the Super Bowl, Jerome expressed his hope that he had done enough to earn the fans' appreciation and the respect of his teammates.

How could you doubt it at all, Jerome? On behalf of everyone, thanks for a great ride. Thank you for showing us what a pro athlete and a true champion looks like. Enjoy your retirement, but come back and see us often, y'hear?

Super Bowl Whiners

The finest team ever won Super Bowl XL last Sunday, and make no mistake: the better team won. No, it wasn't the most beautiful game ever. The Steelers faltered in the beginning and didn't truly get going until the second quarter.

Today I see Seattle fans and Pittsburgh haters (re: people who hate the game of football) whining about the bad officiating and how that was the only reason that the Steelers won. In particular, there are two calls they mention:

1. An offensive pass interference call against Seattle early in the first quarter that led to a 'Hawks touchdown being overturned. Accounts will vary. Some insist that Jackson didn't even touch Chris Hope. These people are blind. Even a full-speed replay shows Jackson's hand making contact with Hope's chest, right in the numbers, and Hope's entire body bouncing back in response. It wasn't a hard shove. But contact was made to the front of the torso -- and that, football fans, is pass interference. Others will insist that pass interference was committed in name only: the shove was not used to create separation between receiver and defender. Not true: that shove clearly moved Hope back involuntarily. So it did create separation. And then, there are those who insist that in a big game like the Super Bowl, a minor example of a foul shouldn't have been called. That might be true. But if Jackson is so stupid as to commit a violation right in front of an umpire -- the guy was standing 10 feet away, looking right at him -- then he has no one to blame but himself.
2. Big Ben's first diving touchdown. I admit that the touchdown call could have gone either way -- at least from the views we saw on TV. But you know what? The referees reviewed it and said it was a TD. Still photos showed the football just breaking the line of the endzone. And -- most importantly -- Seattle knows it was a touchdown. They didn't make much a fuss at the time -- just a token protest that you automatically make after every close play. You know why they weren't more vocal? Because they knew. They didn't start whining until afterwards. Fuck them.

In the end, Seattle tried two old refrains:

1. "We beat ourselves with mistakes." Maybe you did. Or maybe Pittsburgh forced them to make those mistakes. Pittsburgh defense might not have gotten its customary gajillion sacks, but it was obviously enough to rattle Seattle to the point of panic.
2. "We still feel we're the better team. We just didn't play our best." Well, Seattle apologists, in case you didn't notice, the Steelers didn't play their best either. Otherwise the score would have been a lot more humiliating for the Seattle Seahawks. Face it: the way you play in the big game is exactly indicative of how good you are. Greatness is defined as the ability to perform on demand. So if you lost -- and you did -- it is exactly because you were the lesser team.

Apologies to my gay friends

"What are you, gay?!!!" - me responding to my cousin's revelation that he likes 'N Sync

"Are you gay or something?!!!" - me responding to the same cousin's describing the movie "13 Going On 30" as a "good movie"

As offensive and disturbed of a man as I might be, I've never had an ounce of homophobia in my body. Not once. I suppose this has to do with a childhood spent around talented musicians, many of whom were openly gay -- even in a time when it wasn't that socially acceptable to be homosexual. Being a bit innocent, it simply didn't occur to me to be afraid of these different, but talented and nice people, and once I got to know them, I would never be homophobic again.

Which is why you should believe me when I tell you that I didn't mean those remarks to my cousin to be homophobic insults. But I did mean them to be insults in that I questioned his masculinity. (I still do. And sometimes, I really do think he might be gay. No matter how many times he insists on e-mailing me to report that, "See, I like girls.")

In truth, the true insult in those comments was to imply that a gay man might like 'N Sync or a bad Jennifer Garner movie. In truth, no one but a bonehead would like those things. (My cousin is brilliant in many ways -- prize-winning MIT grad, solid understanding of undergraduate level math at the age of 17, made me a pair of kick-ass speakers from scratch just for fun, etc. -- yet incredibly dumb in others. (No, it's NOT a good idea to try to bake brownies in a rice cooker, you moron!)) So to my gay friends -- I sincerely apologize.

But I do have to wonder: I've heard other friends make the term "gay" or some cruder synonym out to be an insult and a questioning of one's masculinity, even when I knew they didn't mean to be homophobic. It's still considered by many a man who claims not to be homophobic to be an insult to be called gay -- as if that makes him less of a man.

One friend has never drank a White Russian in my presence again, ever since I innocently mentioned that back in my bartending days, we just assumed that a man ordering a White Russian or a White Zinfandel was gay. (In the same token, we assumed that red wine meant "snob," Bud Light meant "redneck" and single malt scotch meant "loaded corporate/yuppie stooge") I've been meaning to tell him that a truly standup man's man would have looked me in the eye and said, "Whatever" before ordering a second White Russian.

So what is it that defines a man? I can only conclude that a man is a guy who realizes stupid shit like that doesn't matter -- that if it gives him enjoyment, that's what counts. Life's too short to limit yourself just because of a fear of what others might think. So as a happily married (yes, to a woman) man, I will happily admit that although I love football, barbecue, and PBR, I also love musicals and showtunes, obsess over my hair, watch and enjoy "Gilmore Girls," and eat quiche. So be it.

Of course, that's easy for me to say. I can probably beat the shit out of you if you make too big a deal out of all this.

P.S. And to my cousin "CC," I still think you might be gay. Not because you like NSync and girly movies -- that just means you have bad taste -- but just because ... I mean, look at your moniker, for god's sake!

France Was Right (!): Suck It Up, Mohammad

It's easy to pick on the French. For a country that claims to be a European power and an modern industrialized nation, they sure do get their asses kicked on the military and economic battlefield on a non-stop basis. Don't get me wrong: the one time I went to France, (admittedly just Paris), I loved it. Loved the way they live, loved the people, and -- do I need to say it? -- I loved the food.

But I hate French politics. I hate that they've let unions get so incredibly powerful and their hypocrical foreign policy. But this time, they -- along with just about every other Western European country -- have it right.

The firestorm basically involved a Dutch newspaper that in September published a series of satirical editorial cartoons lampooning the Prophet Mohammed. I haven't seen them, but evidently one of them has the Prophet wearing a head wrap that's really a bomb, and one of them has the holy one telling Allah that, "We're starting to run low on virgins in Paradise [for suicide bombers]." Depictions of Mohammed are generally considered in very bad taste in the Islamic religion, and making a joke out of him is evidently taboo. Fair enough.

As detailed by the Christian Science Monitor and the BBC, the cartoons led to widespread demand from Islamic groups -- governmental and non-governmental, militant and non-militant -- that the Dutch government apologize and shut down the paper. Of course, the Dutch government's explanation that they don't run the newspaper and therefore cannot shut it down or penalize it for published content has been ignored, and as a result, Dutch interests in the Middle East, along with the paper's business offices, have been under threat: bomb threats, etc. etc.

The furor had died down until a number of major European papers in France, Germany and Spain decided to make a statement in support of their journalistic brethren by republishing the cartoons. The point, of course, is that in a free society, everyone and everything is fair game for criticism, lampooning and satire. Germany's Die Welt newspaper even went so far as to point out that Muslim demands for "respect" of their religious beliefs are extremely hypocritical given the fact that no-one in the Muslim world seemed to mind when a Syrian TV program that recently published a cartoon that depicted a rabbi engaging in cannibalism. Die Welt also pointed out that respecting the beliefs of Muslims does not mean one has to obey its edicts. For instance, though I have respect for the former greatness of Islamic civilization and many of its tenets, there ain't no way I'm ever giving up the consumption of pork products. To quote Die Welt, we all have the right to blaspheme.

So to God, Buddha, Shiva, Yaweh, and Mohammad: Fuck you, and the donkeys you just rim-jobbed too.

What I'm reading

I used to love reading, but got out of the habit after I discovered booze and porn and anime and ... well, you get the picture. Recently I've begun reading for pleasure, and I do most of it during my weekday commutes. A book also comes in damn handy when you go shopping with your wife. Here's what I'm reading these days:

The Countess of Stanlein Restored, by Nicholas Delbanco. A short, well-photographed work that documents that complete restoration of the Countess of Stanlein (ex-Paganini) cello, considered the ultimate example of what a perfect cello should be. The cello was restored by New York-based luthier Rene Morel and owned by former Beaux Arts Trio cellist Bernard Greenhouse. Beautiful photographs, plus a quick primer on Antonio Stradivari. Though I'm a violinist whose intimately familiar with how string instruments work, I'm still finding this all very educational so far.

Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris. A gift from my friend Yuki roughly five years ago, I finally got around to reading this, and wished I hadn't waited so long. This is a series of vignettes from the author's childhood and young adulthood, and it's fucking hilarious. Reading this on the subway has led to my convulsing in laughter, which has led to my fellow commuters giving me plenty of space -- an added benefit.

Beyond Taijiquan: The Supremacy of the Taiji Mind by Wong Choon Sing. Though the premise of this book -- a modern Taiji student, in a dream, meets a legendary Taiji master from ancient times and gets to learn the inner meaning behind the Taiji forms and their applications. Though the premise wears thin quickly and grows annoying -- the dialogue has the student constantly obsequiously asking, "But master, what does XYZ mean, and how does one abc," with the master "smiling beneficently" and responding, "That is a very good question. Many people do not understand that blah blah blah." Annoying, but the book does have good information. I found this book while browsing in a small Chinatown bookstore for something else, and it was going to be a gift to my cousin Stan. Now he's just going to have to wait a little while.

Feast of Crows by George R.R. Martin. The fifth gargantuan volume of Martin's A Song of Fire and Ice series continues the saga of the struggle for power in a fictional world. Though this is fantasy, all the characters are incredibly three dimensional and real, and the magic is not the focus of the story: the motivations, Machiavellian schemes and caprices of the characters are. This series is absolutely fantastic. I'm not kidding. Go read it all now.

Krakatoa, by Simon Winchester. A history of the events that led up to the eruption of Krakatoa, one of the deadliest volcanos in the past millenium, and how Krakatoa influenced the subsequent course of history on a widescale basis. It's slow going so far, but shows promise.

Five For ...

Everyone's heard of the freebie list: a short list of celebrities you are allowed to do if the opportunity <cough> arises, with no fear of consequences from your significant other.

(For the record, my top 5 list includes:

1. Charlize Theron
2. Brooke Burke
3. Laetitia Casta
4. Keira Knightley
5. Salma Hayek -- or maybe Michelle Yeoh)

But it's easy to pick a list of fantasy shags. They just have to look hot and be sexy. I mean -- look at the list above -- do I really need to explain the reasons for the five (six) women I chose? But what about lists of people you might like to share other expriences with?

For instance, here's the top five people I'd like have dinner with. Obviously, I've excluded people I actually know, since I actually can have dinner with them.

1. Anthony Bourdain The infamous chef and author of "Kitchen Confidential," Bourdain has since made a career of living my fantasy life: traveling the world and trying anything that has even the remotest chance of being great. And getting paid for it! I figure any meal with Tony has got to be great -- especially if I let him choose the place. This is a man who loves food of all sorts -- from the exotic to the comfortable, from haute cuisine to a simple burger or fresh boiled crab. Plus, he's profane, hard-drinking and absolutely hilarious.
2. Calvin Trillin Not a professional chef, yet one of the most enthusiastic eaters I've heard of -- while definitely an enthusiast of classic "chef" cooking, Trillin is better known for championing regional American specialties and ethnic delicacies at a time when everyone else thought the end-all be-all of great cooking began and ended within 10 miles of the Eiffel Tower. Things like Cajun crawfish boil, New England clambake, Southern fried chicken, true slow-smoked barbecue or funnel cake -- these are things that only locals and Trillin appreciated at the time. Trillin obsesses over food as much as I do, and he's a devotee of all that is artery clogging and wonderful.
3. Charlize Theron Forget the fact that she's hot. If her talk-show/interview persona is to be believed, this is a very cool woman with a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for large thick steaks, accompanied by proper martinis and followed by a fine cigar afterward. What better dinner companion could there be?
4. Jerome Bettis This might be a temporary pick. But it's "The Bus's" last season in the NFL, with the mighty Pittsburgh Steelers, and it's playoff season. He seems like a great guy, and you know a guy doesn't get that big in the midst of a career in a contact sport without knowing what to eat -- and being able to eat a lot. So that's a guy who's got to be a fun guy to share a meal with, as much for the company as for the enthusiasm I bet he brings to a well-set table.
5. Arnold Schwarzenegger, circa Pumping Iron If you've seen this movie, you've marveled at how much protein competitive bodybuilders eat in order to get all that muscle mass. I'm not into bodybuilding -- or even lifting weights -- but it'd be fun to see if I could keep up with them. Plus, Ah-nold and his training buddies seemed to be a group of fun guys.

And of course, another thing I like is having a drink or three. And while I'm not averse to drinking alone, the proper way to destroy your liver is as part of a team. My top picks for drinking are generally musicians and artistic types. Yes, porn is an art form.

1. Frank Sinatra. Ol' Blue Eyes. Not only a great and knowledgable singer and actor but a legendary favorite of beautiful women (even the man who gets his overflow would be a lucky man), Frank was also legendary for his all-night benders. He often threw parties and told his guests to bring their sunglasses, and many were the livers that were brought low in the company of the Chairman. Yes, Frank loved his Jack Daniels, and he knew how to drink it.
2. Dorothy Parker. A writer whose wit only sharpened with the addition with alcohol, Parker was known to deliver stinging one-liners such as: "Brevity is the soul of lingerie," "I've been too fucking busy, and vice versa," "Another drink and I'll be under the host." Excellent.
3. Kid Rock. First, you've got to realize that this man knows music. And one the best things to do when you're drinking is to listen to good music and talk about it, so right there, Kid Rock makes my list. Plus -- have you seen this man's music videos? Strippers, brawls, and lots of booze make for a good time, and from what I've heard, life does imitate art -- at least in this case.
4. Lao Tzu. The writer of the Tao Teh Ching, the seminal work of the Taoist philosophy, must surely have lots to say during a day and night of drinking, and Taoist sages are known for their habit of retiring from courtly life for a life in the forest drinking and writing poetry. Nice.
5. Jenna Jameson. Porn star extraordinaire. Now, mind you, though I'm not saying I don't think she's hot, the appeal here is her brassy, sex-obsessed persona. She's brash, funny, and earthy, and she chose a professional name due to her love for a certain Irish whiskey. Ideally, if I get a chance to get bombed with her, it'll be in a church so that we can have a good time not just by drinking and talking, but also by shocking the hell out of the pious and devout.

Finally, as a lifelong martial arts student, here's a list of five people I'd like to train with, if even for just a day:

1. Ip Man I'm primarily a wing chun stylist, and any wing chun practitioner knows that Ip Man is the father of modern-day wing chun. Wing chun is a compact martial art that stresses centerline attack and defense, economy of motion and proper positioning. Wing chun fighters develop contact reflexes that allow them to instantly perceive (through touch) their opponent's intended attack and to neutralize and aggressively counter it. In practice, wing chun is simple, direct and aggressive. The list of great fighters that he produced is huge, including such luminaries as Wong Shun Leung, Bruce Lee, and his son Ip Ching. So Ip Man has to go on this list.
2. Guo Yunshen Guo is one of the most famous documented masters of the Chinese martial art of Xingyiquan -- roughly translated as Form and Intention Fist. Xingyi is one of three major Chinese internal martial arts, and it is the oldest. All the internal arts focus on power generation through proper alignment of the body, with power coming simultaneously from the entire body; with internal arts, even muscles and tendons that most people never train to consciously control contribute to the issuing of power. Xingyi's usage of internal power is the most direct and aggressive; similar to a wing chun philosophy, xingyi fighters respond to an attack simply by choosing a different angle and driving in, attacking their opponents in shockingly jarring strikes until the job is done. Among Xingyi fighters, Guo Yunshen, was one of the most famous. He worked as a bounty hunter and a caravan guarder, and it was said that he could beat "all under heaven" with a single technique -- bengquan, the "crushing fist." (In truth, there were at least two fighters he failed to defeat, but he still had an impressive record!) Though a hot-headed fighter in his youth, in old age he mellowed and became known as a xingyi master with a deep understanding of the art.
3. Yin Fu The sister art of Xingyiquan is Baguazhang. It is also an internal art, but where Xingyi is direct and aggressive, Baguazhang practitioners believe in evasiveness used for disorientation; where Xingyi fighters prefer a straight-line attack, Bagua fighters prefer to evade and disorient an attacker, and then counterattack -- brutally. Yin Fu studied his art directly from its founder, and due to his previous training in striking styles, his interpretation naturally focused on strikes (my preference as well). Yin Fu's bagua is one of two major schools of Baguazhang, with the other being that of Cheng Tinghua, whose interpretation reflects the grappling and wrestling background from which he arose. Yin Fu was most famous as the imperial bodyguard of the Empress Dowager and a noted fighter.
4. Rolls Gracie. Today, the Gracies have proclaimed that Rickson Gracie is finest practitioner of the family art, also known as Brazilian jujitsu. Though I doubt his claim that he has never been defeated, but to watch Rickson in a match is to see power, fluidity, smoothness, flexibility and sensitivity in action. Yet, those who have seen Rickson, supposedly the best practicing today, generally agree that as good as he is, he's nothing compared to his teacher Rolls, whose understanding of his art led to many innovations and developments in BJJ. It can be said that Rolls invented half of what is taught as Gracie jujitsu today. Alas, Rolls died young in a hanggliding accident.
5. Angelo Dundee. This is the guy who trained Muhammad Ali and Sugar Ray Leonard. Need I say more? OK, here's more: when George Foreman -- who had lost to a Dundee-coached Ali in the "Rumble in the Jungle" came out of retirement, guess who he asked to train him?

So those are my top five lists. What about you?