Pet Cobra

The Matter

Sound carries through the big house; he heard my muttered string of profanities from downstairs. Open office window, open back door. I'm usually smarter than that.

"What's the matter, Dad?"

Where to start? The computer, like that red wheelbarrow upon which so much depends, was on the fritz, not picking up the Internet signal (see: red wheelbarrow). There were posts that needed to be written. My latest contact gig ended with no notice. There were checks that had not yet arrived. There were bills that were overdue. October was drawing to a close, the holidays and the end of another year and the rest of my goddamn life were rolling in like a black tsunami.

I looked at him for a second. That was all it took, all it usually ever takes.

"Nothing's wrong. Go grab your rugby ball. We'll play catch."

Retraining

Cells are elastic. They have to be, of course, otherwise we'd resemble a character from an old 8-bit video game. They stretch and compress and revert. They remember what they are. As do they, so do all of your other living parts. That's where I start. Distance, time, speed, those will come later.

The bones: feel like they're filled with concrete. I used to have the bones of a bird, hollow, titanium-strong. 

The muscles: atrophied from long days at the desk, victims of an Alzheimer's of my own making. (A curable one, though. There's that. The remedy: a cocktail of squats, stretches, hills and deep, dry sand.) 

The blood: it moves through the veins like strawberry preserves, thick, clotted, muscles squeezing blue and red tubes like toothpaste containers, pushing the viscous stuff towards the heart. That's the first thing I remember as I bang down the trail: how it sang, how it ran like quicksilver. 

The heart is trying to push its way through my ribcage.

The lungs: newborn. Like balloons straight from the packaging, tight, resistant, averse to inflation. The breaths are quick and shallow and each is accompanied by a word from the chant in my head: there. is. only. one. finish. line.

The Opposite of That

I'll never stop writing.

But:

I've been called a sellout.

A hater.

A dick.

An asshole.

An egomaniac.

A bad father.

I've had my work blatantly ripped off, and I've been called a bully for defending it. 

I've been lumped in with shills and sycophants, had my name spoken in the same breath as the names of these pretenders who are vying for a throne that doesn't. Fucking. Exist. 

I've watched as friends have achieved the writing success that they've so richly earned, and I've also watched as hacks and charlatans have achieved the writing success that they haven't. Regarding  "success", it's an abstraction, but that hasn't stopped others from publicly attacking me simply because they're bitter that they haven't achieved it. Whatever "it" is. If "it" even exists at all. 

I've thrown away all semblance of a normal life. I get up in the morning before the sun and write, I work my day job, then come home and write, sometimes into the next morning. My writing - my fixation on it - has overtaken and consumed much of what I loved to write about - my family, surfing, arts, movies, TV, music, travel, food, politics. Writing's been about writing, and not the stuff that life is actually about.

The head is eating the tail.

So what I did was, I wrote the above and saved it as a draft. This was about a month ago. It sat in the dark and grew mushrooms. Meanwhile, I decided that I needed to get off my lazy ass and do something about it. A bunch of somethings. One something: running. There was a goal: a few years back, I ran half marathons. 13.1 mile races. There was a target. There's a race coming up in November and I intend to finish it and finish it well. I'll run. Run run run run run. Put some headphones on and play loud music to drown out the stitch in my side. Wash the past few months clean with sweat and Gatorade. Put some miles between me and that guy. 

 

The Leg Got Swept

Stay in the fight. Martial arts teachers love that phrase. Mine say it, most of the teachers in Sam Sheridan's fight memoir A Fighter's Heart say it, Chiwetel Ejiofor says it in Redbelt. Even if you're getting your ass handed to you, stay in the fight. You never know what'll happen if you do, but you do know what'll happen if you don't. You'll lose.

My ass got knocked right out of The Fight a couple of days ago.

I'm a scant few weeks away from testing for my Green belt. Reaching the Green in tang soo do is a big deal; it shows commitment, seriousness, and desire. I'd been going to two, sometimes three regular classes a week, and doing Saturday sparring sessions on top of that. Regular classes: learning kicks, punches, blocks, combinations. Sparring: putting those lessons into action. Practice during the week. Saturday - game on. As a Fighter - one who actually knows how to make use of all that stuff they teach - I was progressing, slowly, but steadily. I'd go up against guys at my level who'd flail about, trying to go all Movie Style, throwing kicks and punches just to see what might land, and handle them nicely. Block. Block. Sidestep. Stay in the fight. Kick. Punch. Win. If you go up against anyone below Black belt, you will get hit, and hit hard, even though you're told light contact. Most novices can't control all of their strikes. (Last week: a Yellow belt, two ranks below me, a few years older, and at least a dozen pounds heavier, got me: punch to the side of the head, bare-fisted, no less. I almost lost my cool. Motherfu...then deep breath, quick blink, back to the Poker Face. I don't like to show any emotion when I spar somebody. Control yourself, control the fight.) I'd go up against Red belts and even a couple of Black belts, and I'd get my ass handed to me, but you know, I'd sneak in a few hits, earn some respect. One of those things about entering your forties: you realize that you don't have a lot of chances to get good at something new.  And I was getting good.

The past three days: hobbling around in nauseating pain. Turns out you can get tendonitis in your hip. And I did. According to The Internet, tendonitis is brought on by too much repetitive motion. I'd had it before, in both shoulders, thanks to surfing.  And so it happened: too many roundhouse kicks, and one day my left leg feels like it's going to explode. The past three days I've barely been able to walk, the past two nights I haven't slept - because here's the funny part: resting your hip actually makes it worse - your muscles stiffen up, and when you move, it's like someone's reaching into your leg, grabbing those muscles, and pulling as hard as they can, trying to rip them right off the bone, like a starving man mauling a KFC drumstick. I've been popping Aleve tablets like M&M's, and it's done little; the pain's a dull roar. Tubes of Icy Hot, tins of Tiger Balm, and the house smells like a Wint-O-Green Lifesaver. And that's it. That's how it's treated. (I'd thought of going the Sterling Cooper Treatment route, but fears of bleeding ulcers have kept me away from medicinal Martinis.) Eventually it goes away. Usually.

My Green belt test is in four weeks. I'll likely be out the rest of this week. My shoulder tendonitis took me about a week to get over, and I was back in the water. So maybe I'll get lucky with the leg. I want that belt. It would be something, some yin in a year that's had a bit too much yang. Stay in the fight, I tell myself. Stay in the fight.

 

The White Stripe

Kids, your high school guidance counselor was right: you need to have goals.

Four weeks in to my return to martial arts training, and I was floundering. It had a lot to do with the fact that when you're forty, your instructors are half your age, and most of your classmates are half your size, you feel your age. Acutely. On my best days, I feel competent. Bob, one of my classmates, is my bitch - I can snap his head back with my sidekick, or crush his ribs with a front snap kick. (Of course, Bob never blocks me, and never moves out of the way, as he's a rubber sparring dummy.) On my bad days, I feel slow and lost, tripping over my own feet and tangling myself in my arms, my bones filled with cement instead of marrow.

Last night's class: seemingly endless repetitions of Basic Form # 3, a cycle of middle blocks, low blocks, and side punches. Some tweaks to my stance, but otherwise, I had it do. "Looking like a Black Belt!", one of the instructor kids told me. "Thank you, SIR!", I replied, without a hint of irony. Then on to my 45 Degree work: stepping out from your attacker at a forty-five degree angle, block his punch, knife-hand jab to his ribcage. Repeat from the opposite side - and that's where I got flummoxed. I'm sure a neurologist could explain why I can step RIGHT/block LEFT seamlessly - stylishly, even, like Neo - but when I'm required to step LEFT/block RIGHT, I suddenly become early 1960's Jerry Lewis. Work through it, I thought. Again, repetitions - step left, block right, step right, block left. Again. Again. Again. Show that Left Brain who's boss. 

Martial arts classes with a bunch of kids: at once deadly serious ("You don't ever want to start a fight - that's what bullies do, and being a bully is against everything a Martial Artist stands for - but if a bully starts one with you, you want to be the one who finishes it.") and sublimely goofy. The class concluded in the goofy vein: we took turns pairing off against each other in a silly melee'. Foam pool noodle in hand, we stood in opposite corners, were told to close our eyes and keep 'em shut, and spun in a circle fives time fast by the instructors. The goal: in pitching, wheeling blackness, find your opponent and bop him on the head with the piece of foam. First one to do this wins the match. Everyone took turns staggering around like drunks at sea, foam tubes flailing wildly, to the cheers and laughs of their classmates. (I lost.) 

Goals. We end each class with a formal salute: line up, bow to the senior instructor, bow to the senior student. This time, our senior instructor had something for us. "You guys did GREAT today. Everyone worked hard. As you work towards your next belt, you get something when you show us that you've mastered certain techniques. Something that shows you've reached a goal. Anyone know what that is?" A bunch of small hands and one big one shot up. A small voice - Lucas' - answered. "Belt stripes, ma'am!" The instructor approached each of us and wrapped a piece of white electrical tape around one end of our belts. "Three more of these, and you guys will be ready to test for your next belt. Good job! Keep it up!" 

Lucas and I drove home; I stripped off my sweat-soaked uniform (another painful difference between me and those kids - to me, Tang Soo Do is a friggin' workout) and wandered into the kitchen in search of Gatorade. "Mom!", Lucas yelled. "I got a white stripe! So did Dad!" "That's great, honey! I'm really proud of you! Both of you!" A month in, and some tangible progress. I gulped down the Gatorade, and patted myself on my stiffening back.

Muscle Memory

This evening: the instructor has rolled out two standing punching bags. He informs us that we are to do as many Middle Punches - the fist in chamber, leveled at the ribcage, targets the opponent's solar plexus. Done correctly at full speed and assuming the other guy doesn't block it, the first two knuckles of the fist will hit that target, and the opponent will collapse like a house of cards, the wind knocked out of him. Our sa bom nim - the Master Instructor and owner of the studio - likes to tell us that one should never start a fight, but if a fight is unavoidable, one should know how to finish it. 

This is my fourth class since returning. I stopped - rather, took a break - eight years ago. Ever since Lucas began - has it been two years? - I've had it in my head to join him. That whisper rose to a fever pitch over the winter. I found myself feeling a lot like Captain Willard, pacing in his Saigon hotel room, getting soft. I needed exercise - the gym is an obligation, surfing is a luxury, but this...this we could do together, father and son bonding. We'd help each other, encourage each other, make each other stronger. You put your kid in martial arts class for many reasons - teach him discipline, give him self-confidence, train him to protect himself from any bullies that might want to dole out some pain.

We grown-ups, we go for many reasons. It's a good workout - my white canvas uniform, my do-bak, is soaked through after every class. Paradoxically, it's very relaxing - your thoughts are fixed on nothing save those two knuckles, or the balls of your feet, or the edge of your hand. Everything else - bills, deadlines, that rattle coming from beneath the hood - is shut out. You move through the 22 steps of a hyung - a routine of blocks, kicks, poses, and punches - and you may as well be standing atop Mudeungsan, alone but for the leafless trees and the winds blowing down from Manchuria. 

I stand in front of the bag, in the Horse stance - feet about shoulder width apart, knees bent, both fists at my side, palms up. Chambered. (It's a good term. Like bullets in a gun.) "Begin!" I throw my punches. My mind goes white. There is always a temptation to project a face onto the bag - someone who, real or imagined, wronged you. Every day is a past life, memories become myths, and all myths have their villains. And the truth of it is that that justice never finds them. Not that it matters. All that matters is that black bag. Those two knuckles pound it with a force unaffected by regrets or rage. Technique is craft, not art; craft is unswayed by emotion. Exhale as you punch, fist revolves, first two knuckles strike and drive through the target. Again. Again. Again. Again. I lose count somewhere around forty. There's Runner's High, which I know well, and there's this, a euphoria of  Speed and Power. I feel eight years younger and ten pounds lighter, in flesh and in spirit. There is another dad, a belt higher than me, in the class and I'm doing something he didn't. The bag is heavy - it weighs over 200 pounds. Every time I hit it, it slides back about an inch. "Annnnnnnd...done!" My last punch - THUD! - and my bellowed ki-yap is loud, and that volume was earned. I turn, face the instructor, bow, and return to the line of students. My heart's pounding and sweat's running into my eyes. I'm totally relaxed. "Nice job!", the instructor says. "Sir!", I reply.

I've been enjoying the classes immensely. I love the camaraderie. I like the challenge of trying to remember stuff I haven't done in eight years, things that by all account I should not be able to do as I near 41. I like having these 45 minutes to take myself out of my world, and completely immerse myself in this one. I think - I know - that returning to tang soo do will be good for me, mentally and physically. And there's this, and anyone who denies it is lying: punching the shit out of something and doing it well is awesome.

I Only Wanna Go Where My Wheels Roll

clackCLACKclackCLACKclackCLACK. The thing makes a sound like nothing else - heads turn (tourists, likely) at "what is that?" speed. It makes a sound like a bunch of other things - a horse, a train, an assembly line. Contradictory, yes. So are ominous clouds piling up over the ocean, the threat of rain in sunny southern California. So is wearing shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of winter. So is the sight of a 40 year old father of two carving turns on a skateboard, flowing down a sidewalk on a Saturday morning.

I haven't done this in a while. Don't even have the right shoes for it - I'd tossed my old paint-spattered DC's a few weeks ago. The fashionable slip-on Converse All-Stars hurt. My arches feel like they're going to collapse leaving me with flippers instead of feet. My right calf hurts. Apparently there are calf muscles that only come into play when the leg pushes a skateboard. The weird pains of age. I roll past a cop. Is this legal? I didn't see any NO SKATEBOARDING ALLOWED signs. Mirrored sunglasses track me. Is this 1979? I don't get pulled over. Perhaps Skateboarding Is Not A Crime after all. Perhaps we have evolved as a society. Perhaps Leucadia's Finest is merely amused by the sight. 

I move quickly enough to feel a thrill, but this is a laconic ride. The board's a longboard, three feet, build for the glide, not the halfpipe. Push, rollllllllllllllllllllll. I have to dismount occasionally - puddles and curbs. I do have a destination - we'd left a car at a party the night before, and rather than load everybody up in the other car, I said "I'll just skate down there, it's not far". Alternate transportation, eco-heart-soul friendly. 

I roll south, passing walkers with their dogs, runners heading into the wind. I move past coffee shops and acupuncturists. It's quiet - the lines of cars and the hordes of chattering cyclists have yet to take to the street. I left my watch at home. I might've forgotten it. Time passes on its own terms. I feel confined on the sidewalk and if not for the potholes and the buses I'd slide over into the street and really bomb it, create parabolas like a snowboarder on a pristine mountain. The pain's been overridden. I'm sweating and grinning and talking to myself like I do. Given enough time and road (and decent shoes) I wonder how far I could go. As I get to the car the rain clouds roll in and open up. 

That was fun. I need to do it more often.

 

40/40: The Inquisition. Let's Begin.

An underlying motif of my quest: Not Looking, Feeling, Or Acting My Age. 40 is a morbid milepost in a man's life. If he is lucky, he's reached the halfway point; the Mortal Coil is 50 percent unwound. Statistically speaking, that halfway point is probably in his rearview mirror. And if you don't think that graying men buy sports cars to symbolically outrun that Great Gettin' Up Mornin', well...

I put the 40/40 List on the backburner: Lucas started kindergarten a few weeks ago, and the run-up to that was draining. There were crayons and glue sticks and boxes of granola bars to stockpile. Visits to the pediatrician and dentist. I was trying to maintain a Zen-like approach: take each thing as it comes, don't freak out that your little boy is beginning a huge new phase in his life, what will be will be. And all the while a great wind kept pushing my fat ass across the sky. I was getting weaker. Flabbier. Atrophying. And I was Unmotivated. The bane of junior high soccer coaches everywhere - Unmotivation. I could go for a run...or, OR, I could eat cold spaghetti with meat and bacon sauce with a side of Smokin' Cheddar BBQ Doritos. Or I could do neither and just sit there and think about eating or exercising or the time that I enjoyed both. I was in the Doldrums. The Horse Latitudes. The Seas of Sloth-Related Cliches.

"We should do a Pilates class together," Beth suggested. Ah! This was on the List! "Do a Pilates class." I could write about it! It would be good for me! Physically and mentally! A mind-body experience, just like Joseph Pilates intended! And a tax write-off! Sign me up!

Oh, the enthusiasm of the yet-to-be tortured.

We arrived at the studio and were greeted by our instructor; she showed me the unique machines that we'd be using for our workout. They look like this. I looked at them and saw this. "Do I need a safeword?" I whispered to Beth. "Mine will be 'rhubarb'".  Our instructor, who, by the way, is an incredibly fit woman, told us to lie down on one of the machines (I believe it was the one called The Reformer, or maybe it's The Widowmaker). "We'll start off easy", she smiled, the relaxed smile of one who is incredibly fit. "I work out",  I said to no one in particular. "Lift weights, run, surf, that sort of thing." The instructor smiled sadly at me. "Let's begin by pushing with the legs, keep your spine in a neutral position, and press your abs down..." "Rhubarb!", I grunted.

For the next hour, I was bent, twisted, stretched, and contorted in ways that Decency prevents me from fully describing. Pilates is resistance training; the machines use springs and your body weight, and just about every exercise involves using your upper and lower abs and obliques in one way or another. It's a devious workout, in that you don't really notice how difficult it is until some 30 minutes into it, when your gut muscles realize what's going on and send a message to your brain: "Hey! Shithead! Up until now the only exercise we usually get is Expansion By Pizza/Beer. What's with this Gymkata stuff?" And then various parts of you begin to shake uncontrollably; I was quivering like late 1990's Katherine Hepburn doing her best imitation of 1957 Elvis. And all the while, the incredibly fit instructor smiles while having you do things that I suspect are violations of the Geneva Convention. (Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition! Our chief weapons are fear, surprise, a fanatical devotion to the Pope, and making hapless schmucks like you do Planks until your arms are ripped from their sockets!) When the hour concluded, I was light-headed and drenched in sweat.

The next day, I felt like I'd been beaten with broom handles.

And here's the thing - it felt good. I had worked muscles that had been ignored since my serious Rock Climbing days. I was in pain, but it was a good pain, the kind earned from pushing yourself in ways that you didn't think possible. So I'll continue doing Pilates. And maybe I'll get to the point where I'll be able to do this - ouch.

Sunday Morning: On The Beach

I had a brilliant run the other day; it was hot, blazingly so, and I was laboring. Every pore was pouring. Still, ambience: the iPod's volume was perfect, the music in two-part harmony with the crashing surf, and the songs, while on Shuffle, fell into a progression that seemed intentional. I got soul but I'm not a soldier. It's been such a long time, I think I should be goin'. I've been there, I know the way. My feet were a percussion section accompanying their own soundtrack. I passed kids mining for sandcrabs, tourists absorbing the final rays of vacation sun, and lots of surfers. 

That crashing surf: the high pressure that's brought murky Cabo heat to San Diego county has done wonders for the waves - the dead hot electric oven air has made for glassy conditions, and the swell mix has kicked up the size. As I pounded down the shore, past the knotted lineups at Grandview and Beacons, I rode those waves - paddling out on the Bonzer, the 6' 10" rocketing into peeling lefts, my hand outstretched, fingers slicing through the wave face, liquid roof blotting out the overhead sun. 

That was in my head, of course. Even if I wasn't running, I'd still be on the beach.

This week I'm visiting my doctor, who is going to examine my right shoulder, which has been hurting for the past...6 weeks? More? Not a debilitating pain, although there are moments - picking up Zoe, reaching to unscrew a burned-out light bulb - where it feels like I'm taking a bullet. The words rotator, cuff, and surgery roll in my head, a constant loop, a whisper reminding me of what's been left behind, all those mornings waking before the sun and spending hour and hour digging through choppy water and scratching to get up and over board-breaking closeouts, a combined tally of thousands of pushups and bench presses, and before all that all those afternoons spent pulling myself up the faces of burning rock faces, cracked fingers with a crust of climbing chalk and blood. All these things that I have done. I don't do them nearly as much as I did, but still.

So I wait. The appointment is on Wednesday. The shoulder. It could be nothing. It could be everything.

Luis Scola, Meet Derek Fisher. And The Floor.

I was ecstatic when it was announced that Fish would be returning to the Lakers. I'm pretty sure I could watch this all day.