Mini-Post: Hot and Steamy...

My friend Pie and I were talking about drinks, tea in particular, and how we love it hot. Coffee, tea, and various other hot drinks are best steaming hot... but we'll discard them once they cool. However, if they're really, really cold, we love them just as much.

We arrived at the conclusion that we really in truth just did not like our drinks the same temp as the room. Unless that room is in a volcano, or at the north pole.

Because Fuck You, that's why...

Seen above: the Irish reasoning behind defiance.

Explaining this to the wife, since she's the wife and all. My family has two real mottos, "No good deed goes unpunished" and the one above, and yes, we're Irish. It's a funny thing really, but it's a sentiment that goes bone deep.

One of the things we love about my grandfather in law is that he pretty much follows the same creed. Man got colon cancer, which in case you don't know what the word "Cancer" means, it means you die a horrible death. Unless you turn to your own ass and say "Fuck you cancer, I will punch you in your malignant faces!" Which is what he did.

Even after the overdose of chemo, and the removal of body parts, the man's still going, cancer free. As his wife put it, he was simply too stubborn to die of it. It's a good trait to defy such things, even in the face of death itself.

And not for some macho "laughing at death," no, you can be bedwettingly scared, but you still take the shot. It's about gritting your teeth and suffering through hardships, never giving in to pain and suffering or even self doubt. To always move forward, with the mentality that you may not make it through alive, but you will sure as Hell not go down without resistance.

When the zombies come in on you, and you've got one bullet left, you fire it at the lead zombie, and then try to kill as many as you can by pistol whip, why?

Because fuck zombies, that's why.

It is a basic rule of our lives, to press on, in a bad economy, in a war torn world, in a rural area with no water. We keep moving forward, heedless of the easy way out. So next time you stand before the end, and search your soul for a reason to keep fighting the inevitable, remember: it's not about how many it took to bring you down, but the fact that they had to bring you down, because you refused to do it for them.

All it takes for them to win, is for you to do nothing. So always do something, no matter what, stand up, be counted, shout loudly, hide behind the scenes, be subtle, walk softly and carry that big stick, because it matters not if you succeed, or if you fail, but that you tried. That when your cause was lost, you still went for it, throwing the ball from across the court in the last seconds in a final effort to score a point, with the score 60 to 0 them. Why?

Exactly.

What wood you do?

I wonder, if trees are sentient sometimes... they seem to be. Almost malicious at times. This line of thinking started earlier, so I'll begin with that...

Imagine talking to a tree, could you invite a human sized tree to your home? Likely not. Your floors would comprise of the flesh of their people, your walls; crudely painted body parts. Your favorite chair a throne of skulls. Hell, you might heat your house with their remains. Switch it around, with a tree person making his house from the dried flesh of humans, eating off them, burning them to warm him... and you've a horror tale.

I imagine that household plants must think themselves captives in some sick house of hell where they might be the next to die.

Look around your room, and see what is made of wood, simple wood. You could explain the house, but what about that cribbage board? The cutting board? Good God, what if you own a wood working workshop? How impressively awkward.

On my wall, I've a sword made from the bone of a swordfish, the blade is its' nose bone, and its' hilt wood. There's now two races I can't invite into my home with that still showing.

Seriously, I had wooden toys... as macabre as a child having a toy hand, made into a doll.

So, I have no wonder as to why trees are quick to grow and break down buildings, ruin streets, or especially brick houses. I'm sure they view it as purging the wicked from their land.

"If trees screamed, would we still cut them down? Probably, if they screamed all the time, for no reason."

The only kid on the street with a special effects budget...

So, during our move to the new apartment, I found a small box of some old toys. They currently reside in the basement with my workshop supplies, because after all the battles those toys and I fought... couldn't toss them. Also, to hell with giving them to some charity, I'm not greedy... but these were my -men-. And women. But mostly men, since back in the 90s, female toys were ether the one female G.I.Joe, or strange Japanese ones that my parents didn't think I was old enough for.

Currently, on my desk, is one of my toys. This guy... well, he didn't have a name when I got him. Found him at a flea market, he literally just looked too cool to pass up. He was in an Asian (can't tell the make) package, and is some sort of robot warrior I've never seen before. So, I had to develop a story for him as a child... and remembering it got me thinking about how I write, so I think I'll share it here:

To describe him when I got him, he was about six inches tall, and in a time when GIJoe were "super poseable" this guy had double jointed knees ball socket hips... he was a ninja from that point on. He was a bright, shined copper with silver highlights, with a big blood red piece in his chest. His chest was a secure mix of parts, so he wasn't just painted different, he -was- different parts. Awesome. He came with three weapons; a shield thing, a gun... and a big, fuck-off copper straightsword that could stab through triple ply cardboard. That sword also stuck nicely in the hands, so no dropping it if he fell down.

He also came with a motorcycle that turned into a robot...

Since I was nine and didn't know about anime power armor yet, I figured he was something from "The Internet" like a badass Freakazoid. I named him Cyberfox, because of his little, foxish ears and that whole internet jive.
Cyberfox had the ability to travel through electrical lines, and besides being the "guy with a sword" he was a Commander rank in my army. This man answered only to Spawn, and the White Ranger.

Currently, Cyberfox shows the wounds of his days, his color is now a faded rosegold, and all the silver is dull black, and his left arm is missing. Lost in a terrible battle in the pantry. His sword is still bright, and I take that as a metaphor for his overall spirit, since this man was the bastard son of Clint Eastwood and a Gundam.

I look at him and remember what I was like as a child; incredibly detailed with my toys. I was not Andy from Toy Story, I did not make up new things each time. I had a long, continuous plotline, filled with twists and turns and defection, betrayal and romance. I shunned playsets to build my own out of cardboard and pilfered styrofoam from the trash, so I could blow up things and punch through walls.

I also used explosives in my black ops missions, one sticks out to me:

A fright truck, carrying munitions to the enemy base in the frozen wastes (outside in the snow), barrels down the slippery highway. Spider-man, Link and Medival Spawn race along side to overtake it. Spider-man manages the jump over, his leg (broken falling down the back stairs, and glued/taped back on) slowing him, allowing the Silver Surfer to ambush him! (He was a villain... I don't know why). They fight atop it, unfortunetly Spider-mans' back up are two men from the dark ages trying to drive a all-terrain vehical, and they nearly skid out. Link clings to the bumper! Then, riding up on his cycle, comes Cyberfox! Sword held this back by a elastic, he leaps as his cycle changes, and jams an explosive (mildly illegal Black Cat firework) into the wheelwell!

The truck flies down the highway (porch roof) Link releasing and sliding to a stop on the icy road as the satchel detonates, blowing the wheels off the left side! The truck catches in the ice and starts to roll, Spider-man barely leaping free and catching hold before watching the truck, Silver Surfer still aboard, sail over the railing and crash to the mountainous abyss below...

Cyberfox picks up Link on his way to Spider-man, and asks, "You called for back up?" (I was nine, catchphrases were hard...)

With fire, real explosions, and the desire to buy and assemble a model truck simply for that... is it any wonder my toys carry battle scars? Also, most of them had costume changes, like Spider-Man's bandana to hide a knife wound (yeah...) with his sweet hat, Link's black ninja armor, and Cyberfoxes... everything.

It's also safe to say, I didn't play well with other kids... since they didn't get why my entry teams planted explosives for their exit out of the styrofoam base, in two places in case Plan A failed.

Plan A, always fails.

Woman, I'm a cat-MAN.

Today, I was comparing martial artists, to cats. We're very much alike. For all of you women out there who date/marry us, this is your comprehensi-... completely half-assed guide to dealing with your new pet.

Because we're nothing more than pets really.

First of all, think about how cats act. Most of them are sort of metro in a "don't care about fashion, or appearing manly, in fact we'll wear the damn sweater if you'll make dinner." They don't seem to care for loud animals, preferring to be quiet and probably laying comfortably on something soft. So, I guess we'll start the comparisons now:

Most martial artists don't try to be "butch," while some guys who take a martial art can be, most who qualify for "martial artist" are truly against the strutting that other men do. Sort of like the previous observation of cats.

Most martial artists tend to find mates that are, well in a word "tough." We're not content with women/men who are whiney, inept, or basically incapable of surviving the zombie apocalypse. No, we want people who are in someway our equal, or at best, our better.

You may ask yourself "Tom, you tall drink of water for the unquenchable thirst, this doesn't sound like my cat..." Well, you're wrong there, because that mate, is You. The evidence: we, as martial artist/cats, tend to make our mates/owners put up with all the random toys we own. Which no matter how we care for them, will be left on the floor or somewhere you -will- step on it or knock over. We tend to occasionally be inherently messy, and forgetful with hiding away our toys.

We bat things around. Punching bags, speed bags, jut boards, fighting dummies, focus mits, kick shields, or everyones favorite, small children. We knock these things about with a mix of power and gentile violence, all at once trying to cause the most harm, yet not break it. Imagine your cats' play place, little dangling things hang down that it uses as part exercise machine, part combat training device, part hilarious pastime.

We're mildly sadistic. For many martial artists, a small change happens when it takes root in your soul; you start enjoying hurting others. Not in a sexual way (well maybe, not judging you), or a crimi(ok, I lied, I'm judging the Hell out of you)nal way, but in that little prickish way that cats do. Bat that little mouse around, or how about waiting till you're not looking... then BAM! right in the back of the head as you pass the stairs. Nothing painful, just letting you know we -could- have torn you in two. Like when a cat uses the claws... just a little.

Who could forget their first time hearing the words "here, throw a punch at me, no it doesn't matter where..." as they were immediately shown a new, excruciating move, that leaves the martial artist going "now if I do this, your arm comes off..."

Or that eyebrow raise when someone pretends to throw a few mock punches, the obvious come-on of "try it... it'll be funny..." akin to the cat tail twitch?

We're damn cute, and it's damn lucky we're cute. Because when you get home, and we're COMPLETELY IGNORING THE MASSIVE DENTS AND SWORD SLASHES IN THE CEILING, it's lucky for us that we look good topless... and that we're so damn adorable when we're wild eyed and looking for violence.

We could be outside, fighting off the Mongolian horde, but once the smell of dinner is in the air, we're suddenly in the kitchen, getting completely in the way as we try to see what's up.

You basically get us, show us off to your friends, indulge in our inane ways, spend cuddly time with us, put up with our loud, obnoxious friends, and buy us expensive equipment/scratching posts so we don't damage the furniture.

Let's face it, the only reason you pick us over cats; we can open jars.

No... Deep down you're a good person... I mean friggen DEEP down...

Watching the kids watch Arthur... yes that's as exciting as it sounds, which is not very much. Todays' episode is about a bully, now besides a bully -not- wanting to fight, he has a heart to heart with Arthur about always winning at things. Now here's where this gets me, see I had a few bullies in highschool and multiple similar conversations, but never with a bully.
The closest I ever came to it was talking to a near psycho killer about his girlfriend and how he didn't want to mess it up with her. I remember trying to tell him to simply -not- be a prick and maybe stop telling everyone how bad she was during sex.

The idea of having to tell people to "be nice" is odd... to me being nice was a sort of given, even if it was selfish. If I wanted to go to the store, I asked nicely, I got to go. Movies, candy, toys, games... hell everything I wanted if I was polite I got, strange. Mainly because around that time in my life I tried getting dates... which never worked when I was polite, ask nicely and you got rejected.

The annoying part was by then I wasn't good at being rude. I watched guys like said bully walk through hot, beautiful, exotic, and various other versions of females... only to have the very qualities they were attracted to him by, repel them later. Women, you confuse me to this day.

By the way, his response to my advice to be nice to his girlfriend (sweet girl, currently a model) was "Nah..."

Pop Quiz, the Subject: Your Life.

Remember in school when they said "we're preparing you for real life" and we all thought they were simply just trying to get us to shut up for nine minutes so they could look over our terrible test scores. Well they were, but that didn't make it any less true.

As I fill out applications for new employment... which is about as much fun as fighting flaming ninjas, I've come to realize that certain schooling actually does pertain to real life. For example; the pop quiz. Suddenly, you need to know things you haven't thought about for years, like the phone number of that store you worked at when you were 17, or the name of your ever changing supervisor at the museum, the one who liked you.

Add in the names of three people you worked with who you could count on to not pull the "he was drunk, all the time" fun that your friends would. Then find three friends who seem respectable, all the while remembering when they leapt off of opposing sides of a rocky river to try and high-five in mid air... yep, we'll just put down mom.

Some of the other fun things that come in to play:
Dealing with people you hate, but have to pretend to like. (Teachers, jocks, bosses)
Getting up on a Saturday, after working all week, to do chores.
Homework, you thought you were done.
Realizing that while -you- found this to be a hilarious representation of a tragic event that brings a lighter feeling to the mood, it's actually a tad insensitive.
Realizing that lying is better than saying "Your opinion was founded on your own ignorance."
"I'm sorry" literally means "I didn't mean to get caught/in trouble."
Riding the bus sucked.
Owning a car was cool until you arrive at a gas station/mechanic shop/red light/construction zone.*
People who annoy you but tell the boss he's great will go further, and lord it over you.

There's other things, but I've lost my point at this... well point.

*Living in New Hampshire, construction is part of our lives.

Seasons in NH: Winter, still Winter, Road Construction, and Pre-winter.