Fear does not exist in this dojo (but questions do).

At this very moment, I am watching the second installment of one of the greatest quadrilogies the world has ever seen: The Karate Kid. This installment, "Karate Kid II: The Search for Daniel's Dignity," is better than the next two adventures, but not as good as the original. But when I was younger, this was all I cared about. In fact, I saw this exact movie in the theater and it blew my mind.

Some things have stood the test of time, while others have not. One of the constants has been Pat Morita's bottomless supply of humor. Such as this gem:

Daniel: Can you break a log like that, Mr. Miyagi?
Mr. Miyagi: Don't know. Never attacked by tree.

Good God! That shit STILL brings the house down. Unfortunately, Ralph Macchio doesn't stand the test of time quite as well. In 1986, I found him to be the absolute coolest cat ever to get beaten up by Billy Zabka. Twenty-four years later, I find him to be so annoying that I not only feel as though Zabka was possibly given a bad rap, but also that Elizabeth Shue could have done much, much better. With the exception of the following three items:

1. "Aw, C'moooonnn."
2. "Whoa!"
3. "Ouch!"

he only asks questions. How aggravating! And seriously, dude. Take off that stupid headband. You look ridiculous. And it has to smell like a mixture of Drakkar Noir, Aquanet and sweat at this stage in the game.

When I originally saw the movie, I thought that the whole drum-technique-expressed-through-the-doll-thing was kind of interesting. At present, I think that a cameo by Stewart Copeland would have been more effective in conveying a drum technique.

Either way, I own the boxed set (Good lookin' out Laura Kicey!) and I will continue to love the franchise, but after all these years Mr. Miyagi's eternal wit and charm trump any and all whining done by his zany sidekick.

R.I.P., Pat Morita. Your performances in the Karate Kid movies are matched only by your appearance in that Tony's Pizza commercial once upon a time.

Currently blasting: Peter Cetera-"Glory of Love"

Leg-Ohs

Last Friday, my dear friend Cotten and I went to see Sonia Sanchez speak at Dickinson College. We met up with a couple of friends beforehand to grab a couple of beers. An important thing to mention is that our reasoning behind having a few drinks before the event was in no way similar to why a teenager would have pounded a couple of Old Milwaukee pounders before a Night Ranger concert in 1985. In other words, we weren't "lubing up," per se; nor were we "psyching ourselves up." I only mention this because the thought of getting wasted before attending a Sonia Sanchez reading is utterly ridiculous. In fact, I wanted to be absolutely stone-sober in case her presence was too powerful for me to handle, thus, turning me into dust. To the best of my knowledge, no one changed form, but I will say that seeing her and hearing her speak was incredible. What an amazing person!! I was blown away as she leveled the room. How great it was!!

So, after that, a few of us decided to go down the street to consume a few celebratory beverages. Since I arrived before everyone else, it seemed like a good idea to make my way to the bar where I would be able to purchase a nice, frothy brew. Locals be damned, I was on a mission. After nudging my way through the crowd of students and townies I managed to find an empty spot near the end of the bar. Now, up until this point, you may be wondering if there is anything resembling a story in this entry. And indeed, there is. The tiny void near the end of the bar had a gaggle of twenty-something girls on the left side and on the right side were two forty-something men who appeared to have received hygiene tips from Oscar the Grouch. I ordered an ice-cold Guinness Draught (not to be confused with a Guinness "Drought" that the girl at the beer distributor encourage me to sample) and replied to a text sent minutes before by my beautiful wife. The bartender walked away, undoubtedly considering how manly I must be in order to request such a tough beer. And that's when I felt a tap on my shoulder from one half of the Dumpster Twins sitting on my right. The following exchange occurred.

Creepy man: (pointing and nodding in the direction to my left) Look there.
Me: What?
Creepy man: (pointing at the legs of a girl from the gaggle to my left)There.
Me: What?
Creepy man: Legs.
Me: OK?
Creepy man: You don't like legs?
Me: Yeah. My wife has lovely ones.
Creepy man: Aw, man. You can look!
Me: (using my mind to quickly steer the Guinness directly into my hand, not unlike the tractor beam in Star Wars: Episode IV) No, thanks.

I did a 180 and beat cheeks out of my little nook. In hindsight, I probably should have told the girl to guard her drink in case the man had a fistful of roofies. But in actuality, it would have taken a special kind of person to be tricked by that guy.

Currently blasting: Desmond Dekker-"Pickney Girl"
Currently enjoying: Syracuse railing Villanova.

Way to stay strong, my friend.

Today is my last day off before I start my new job in the morning. To celebrate, I have been listening to music, reading and drinking...a bit. At noon, Rosalie had a doctor's appointment. Nothing important, just a follow-up to an appointment she had a month ago. Everything was fine with her, as we expected, but in the process of picking her up for her appointment, I got to see a rather hilarious bumper sticker and as a bonus, the owner of the bumper sticker.

So, you may be wondering how I saw the driver AND the bumper sticker. I saw him get in his car on the street and then after I pulled out of the daycare, I ended up behind the same car. Perhaps he was warming that bad-boy up before going out on the prowl. I'm not sure. Either way,the bumper sticker on said car read the following:

"I'll keep my guns, my freedom and my money. You can keep the 'Change'."

Clever, no? I trust he voted for McCain in the 2008 election or perhaps he wrote in David Duke. The man, when I saw him, appeared to be going out into the forest in search of large game. Camouflage draped his right-wing body as he sauntered into his car. Seeing the man and the sticker in which he sported made me wonder what this man meant by "change" since he seemingly included all of the things that he held near and dear to his heart in his list of things that he chose to keep. Since I didn't get the opportunity to speak to him, I decided to create a list of thing that I supposed he would wish to give away. Among those things, I came up with the following list:

His crystal-meth lab
His teeth
His dignity
His David Allan Coe CDs
His access to fairs and/or carnivals (including ability to operate rides)
His windowless van
His inability to be treaded upon.
Etc etc...

Now, I know it is unfair to judge people solely by their bumper stickers and/or camouflage attire, but this fellow totally owned the stereotype of disenfranchised hillbilly. This certainly isn't the first silly bumper-sticker that I've seen. But it was the best I've seen in a while, and that's good enough for me.

Currently blasting: Mission of Burma-"The Truth About Burma"
Currently rocking-A Banana and a soft pretzel with Ortega-brand "cheese dip"

The Skinny

After a lengthy hiatus, I've decided to return to Blogburg, or is it the Blogosphere? I'm not sure. I enjoy writing about the ridiculous things and people that I encounter on a daily basis, so this blog will act as my forum for reporting such encounters. There really won't be any format, per se; basically the same types of things that comprised my last blog: Nothing too heavy, nothing overly political, I'm not trying to fight or support City Hall...nothing like that. My plan is simply to tell stories.

Now, as far as the name goes, again...nothing mind-bending. A few months ago, a class that I was taking was granted a 10 minute break. I saw a friend outside and he was running like hell. It was then that I decided that people, other than athletes and wanted criminals, are most vulnerable when they are running. I had never seen this person run before and I couldn't help but think how ridiculous he looked. Then I considered how ridiculous I must look when I run. In my case, the flailing limbs and spazzy wounded-deer mechanics are most likely enough to make witnesses think that I am a blind PCP addict. This is why I tend to stick to walking when I'm in public. Chances are pretty good that if I was being chased by a man with an axe, and there were people on the street while I was being chased, that I would sooner walk with urgency, thus, saving face, than run. That's how bad I have it. "It" being lack of grace. But anyway, from a distance it's easy to judge a lone runner. The person is late, he or she is unprepared for something; the list of thoughts is as long as it is ridiculous. Or perhaps I just like to internally mock people who are hurried for one reason or another.

So that's what this blog is going to be made up of: Stories and thoughts that have little if any bearing on anything.

Currently blasting: ESG-"A South Bronx Story"