The Santa Clause

The saccharin music chirping through retail stores everywhere today confirms it: Christmas season is here in force. Actually, it seems to come earlier every year as evidenced by the displays in stores, but that's been well covered. I actually like Christmas quite a bit. True, if I never hear “Jingle Bell Rock” again in my life it'll be too soon, but I do enjoy the mass efforts to be a little nicer, a little more considerate, and a little more thankful.

There is one part of Christmas though, that rankles me to no end, and that is Santa Claus. I don't know how that greybeard loon became such a holiday fixture, but it wasn't with my blessing. And my distaste has nothing to do with the true meaning of Christmas. I don't give a damn about the true meaning of Christmas, and neither does anyone else, or else he or she would celebrate it in November or July or whenever the latest revision of Jesus' birthday currently falls. My issue with Santa Claus is the dishonesty.

Everyone knows there is no Santa Claus. This is not like life after death, or aliens, where you can't prove a negative. EVERYONE knows. No only do we know there is no Santa Claus, but we also know that all those presents got under the tree, because adults put them there. And they weren't delivered in a sled but in a Ford. The closest thing to truth in the whole tale is that the toys are made by little unpaid workers. So for someone to look in a kid's eyes and boldly tell them that there is a fat man with a beard, who lives in the North Pole – where there is no land – and makes toys and gives them to all the good girls and boys – which is bribery pure and simple – and who watches all the kids and knows who's been naughty or nice – HOLY CRAP WHAT THE HELL KIND OF STORY IS THIS? I bet if you took a poll of every parent in the world and asked, “Is it important that your kids are totally honest with you?” they would all, to a man and woman, answer yes. Yet it's no problem to sell them a fairy tale whose offenses against morality are trumped only by those against physics.

Just as people bemoan the lost meaning of Christmas, Santa Claus has a noble heritage degraded into farce. The main inspiration seems to be the 4^th century Saint Nicholas of Myra, who was noted for his generous gifts to the poor and in particular for giving a dowry to three sisters so they could get married and avoid a life of prostitution. Somehow we've gone from that noble philanthropist to an overweight flying watchdog who bribes children to behave well. As usual, the terrestrial explanation is so much more grand.

A friend of mine who harped at length about the importance of honesty, even in friendly games of Wii Baseball, conceded without shame that she planned to tell her kids about Santa Clause. When I pointed out here obvious hypocrisy she said, “But I remember how magical Santa was for me, and I want my kids to have that too.”

First off, no you don't remember. The fallibility of memory has been proven many times over, and what you're really “remembering” is the way your present 'you' feels about the idea of Santa, and maybe combining that with some speculation on the joy of of having little rugrats of your own to share the tale with. The odds that you actually remember how you felt, as a five year old, thinking about Santa, are miniscule. I think it's a pretty good bet that any joy and wonder you did feel were not because of Santa, but the MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF PRESENTS you were about to receive. It doesn't matter if it's a jolly man in a red suit, a jolly green giant, or a green goblin; if he's bringing you a Nintendo you'll feel pretty magical.

On occasion you'll hear an outcry because some random adult disabused a child of this foolish belief (I have an article up right now about a substitute teacher fired for telling a classroom of seven year-olds there was no Santa Claus. The outcry was severe). People will say it's the parents' right to raise their kids how they want, but that argument never held water for me. If parents wanted to raise their kids to be filthy little racists, is that their right? I certainly hope not, and we would all hope, in that situation, for an honest teacher. If it's the parents' right to lie to their kids, it's certainly a teacher's right to tell them the truth.

(As a side not, my wonderful mother, a Montessori teacher who never bothered her kids with this fairy tale, accidentally yet frequently let slip to her students the truth of Santa's non-existence, even to kids as old as nine. Nine!)

I never advocate a fantasy over reality, part because of the dishonesty, but also because, as with the truth behind the real Saint Nick, reality is always so much more grand, so much more impressive. People talk about the magic of Santa Claus, but how does that compare to the love of your family? Parents who will take the time to find the right present for you, spending money they might not even have, because they want to see the joy on your face Christmas morning? And if you've transgressed a time or two over the last year, well...you're still their beloved child. Next to that, the 'magic' of Santa Claus is weak stuff indeed.

There’s Never Been a Better Time

Don’t immediately hit the back button on your browser, but the other day I was reading a blog about feminism. I think I linked to it via aldaily.com or some other source of reputable essay and opinion, and you can link to it here. The post was some sort of progressive-feminism thing, positing that women could wear makeup and short skirts and still be feminists. Whatever makes them happy is my feeling, I’m not addressing women’s issues today. The article held my interest well enough, until I got to this jewel of a sentence: “At the same time as being more emancipated than ever, we have never been more obsessed with youth, thinness and celebrity.”

I’m sorry?

Does that sentence give anyone else pause? If not, you may want to read it a few more times.

The first half of the sentence is fine, it’s the part that begins “we have never been more obsessed with….”

Ok, let me say this very clearly – Stop saying things like that. Stop making statements about how things now are so much worse than they used to be. I hear this nostalgic junk all the time, one statement after another that essentially says, “People used to be better than they are.” Always made with no authority and no evidence. You weren’t there. Wherever there is for such an impressively vague statement. I’m not talking about just women’s issues, it’s only that this particular article got me going. Things are not bad today, and they were not better yesterday. They are better today than they ever have been. Let’s look in turn at each claim of that offending sentence.

Youth--------------

Not that I’m entirely sure what is means to be obsessed with youth, but I’ll take it to mean “obsessed with staying/appearing youthful,” and not “obsessed with the cast of ‘Harry Potter.” I’m certainly interested to see where the authors of that column got their data about people’s obsession with youth over the entire history of the world, but we can probably assume they just made it up. I can certainly see why it’s crazy that a woman in her fifties would be concerned about her looks or health, since century she would have been dead. I could guess people were more obsessed with youth “back in the day,” because they kept dying in the middle of it. Besides, isn’t saying “obsessed with youth” like saying “obsessed with breathing?” As if it’s obscene to preserve the image and feelings of health, virility, fertility, and everything else that goes along with youth. I’m sure the authors of that column welcome a short decrepit life followed by an ugly death, but I can’t blame others for trying to hold on to the good parts.

Thinness-------------

Women used to wear corsets. Now they don’t. It’s just that simple. Also we are fatter then we have ever been. So…there goes obsession with thinness. Next!

Celebrity-------------

There is merit to this claim, in large part because technology has enabled global exposure. But that doesn’t mean we are more obsessed than ever, just that we’re able to act on our obsessions to a much larger degree. I might not care about Natalie Portman if I'd never been exposed to her through the internet, cable tv, and magazines in every checkout aisle. I also might not care about here if I were tilling a field and dying of the pox, or had died in infancy as used to be so common. Here’s an important point: I was all fired up to dismiss the claim of “obsessed with celebrity” as a bunch of crap because it was in a sentence with two completely false assertions, and because I just didn’t think it was true. But before I claimed anything, I did some research. I read about how global media has changed the nature of celebrity, and now I’m informed and can make knowledgeable statements instead of just having knee-jerk reactions.

I don’t need to single out a poor sentence in an otherwise decent article. Misconceptions abound in every part of life. I highly recommend the book The Science of Fear, which basically shows how we are all stupid and gullible, although the author puts it much more kindly. I will not.

We can look at almost anything. People talk about being afraid to lock their doors at night, and how everything has gotten so dangerous, but violent crime has been decreasing. Go to the DOJ website and look at it yourself. Also consider the reporting of crimes. The data shows an increase in rape over the last hundred years, but what counts as a rape now was probably standard behavior for a job interview in the fifties. Obviously a facetious fabrication there, but the valid point is a large part of the escalation is probably increased reporting of rape, and tougher definitions. The rise of women in college probably has an effect, but I don’t know many women who would give up all the progress that let them have equal educational opportunities because of dicey behavior at frat parties.

There’s a commercial that’s been on lately, I don’t know what the product or company is, but it shows a young girl of probably nine looking at a sexy billboard, then it flashes through a bunch of similar images before the voiceover says, “Girls today are under more pressure than ever before. Blah blah blah.” (my edit obviously). Again, the first problem here is how do you know? How do they know that girls are under more pressure today? Has there been a decades long study involving questions like, “how much pressure are you under?” I can see how they might be under extra pressure at school, because now that people are finally coming around to the idea that girls can be as smart as boys, they might feel some pressure to get good grades and maybe, I don’t know, go to college. And then they have the pressure of deciding if they want to try to raise a family right away, or maybe wait so they can have a career, or try to do it all at once. You know, there was a time when all of those decisions would have been made for them, since all they had to worry about was finding a husband (easily done, since no one back then obsessed with being thin!).

This debunking can go on forever. “People are wusses today.” Well, none of us are as strong as a gorilla, so I guess we should all lament the day we started walking upright. “People are so lazy today.” Yes it’s true, people just don’t value a good hard day’s work any more. Why, time was a man would spend a whole day making candles, dipping the wick in and out of hot wax hundreds of times just to make one candle. Nowadays we lazy bastards just go to the store and buy them. Shameful.

Almost any statement of this type is blatantly false, and the ones that do have a shred of truth always turn out to be for the best. I believe people may have been physically stronger decades or centuries ago, but that’s because life was difficult and unpleasant. If you had to walk everywhere because there were no cars, then yes, you’d be good at walking and “in shape,” but it would mean you’d spend the whole day on a social call. The fact is, life is easier now. Humans don’t work any harder than they have to, so any small superiorities we may have had in the past (and I’m sure they are few and minor) were only from necessity.

Take obesity. Yes, we are all fat pigs. Yes, our preceding generations were not. Because they had no food and had to walk everywhere. Today US Agribusiness produces 3900 calories of food per day per person, half again as much as is required. And while that is a terrible bit of profit-making irresponsibility on their part, and a terrible failure of self-control on our part, we eat cause it’s there. I firmly believe that if you go back any number of decades or centuries and offer then 3900 calories of food per day, they will plump up like those sponge dinosaurs you throw in a bathtub. Can I prove that statement? It would be tough, because I wasn’t there, and neither was anyone else. We could look at wealthy people throughout history, the ones with access to copious amounts of food, and see what the incidence of obesity was among them, if such data exists. Then look at other wealthy countries without high obesity and see what they’re doing. How many calories per capita are produced in France, for example. It’ll take serious research, which someone else will have to do. Still, I have a theory, and have presented it as such, instead of just a flat declaration that “Things are bad! I with they were good like they used to be before I existed!”

Bottom line is, things are better than they’ve ever been. Health care is better. Roads are better. Opportunities for women and minorities and better. The Civil Rights Act was only in 1964, for god’s sake! Only forty years ago, and as a nation we’re just getting around to the idea that segregation is bad. So now tolerance is better. Education is better because our knowledge of the world is growing by leaps and bounds. And the best part is, it’s only going up from here! Even this economic crisis has an Other Side, and things will be even better once we get there. So rejoice that you’re alive today, and not yesterday. Leave idle and specious speculation about the past and look towards the future, because things are better than they ever have been, but not as good as they will be.

Buick on Fire


I started 2008 knowing it was was going to be a very new year. Over the holidays I'd decided I was going to resign from my job. Teaching Karate had been great, and I always enjoyed the time on the mat with the kids, but my satisfaction with the company had deteriorated to the point where I spent each weekly company meeting with my head in my hands, making noises normally associated with a sick dog. And I knew they weren't happy with me, because there were strict company guidelines about how to teach, and I was way off the map, teaching however I wanted, the Sensei Without a Cause.

My first day back in '08 was supposed to be the 2nd, which was the one day each week I taught at an alternate location, in Redondo Beach. Same company, same bosses, just a different part of town. At 10:30 am, several hours before I going in to teach, I got a call from Alec, the manager there.

"Hey Kenny," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that you didn't need to come in today."

Well...this either was or was not an auspicious beginning to the new year. Were my bosses up to something sinister? The fact that, rather than let me know in advance, they let a subordinate call me a few hours before showing up to work should illuminate my desire to quit.

That made Thursday January 3rd my first day of work. I made it to my last class without any incidents: no kids cried, no one peed on the floor, no one puked all over the place. At 6:30, half an hour before I was home free for the day. Immediately I knew there was trouble. Bosses don't work past 5 o'clock. And it's not like two bosses come in to give good news, like, "Congratulations! Were going to sing a duet about the huge raise you're getting?"

Finishing class was not easy. It was Dead Sensei Teaching. I struggled to resist saying, "Kids, get this right, because you'll never see me again." I finished class, the kids and parents left, and I walked out the the lobby. My bosses sat together on one side of the desk, I sat down across from them. We started at each other. Everybody knew what was coming:

"Well, Kenny," began my General Manager Alesia, "over the Christmas break we all met, Dawn and Andrew and Ben and I, and...we've decided to let you go."

Let you go. Whichever HR lackey thought that one up was a true wordsmith. Let you go. Notice how "fire" and "terminate" have such violent connotations, but let you go is so gentle, almost merciful. Let you go. Like a captive animal released back into the wild.

"We're doing this for a couple reasons..." they started.

"No no," I interrupted. "That's a good call."

They stared. Probably not the response they were expecting.

I continued. "It's been obvious from the way things are going that, either I was going to quit, or you guys were going to fire me. It's fine."

So I was out, and with a great deal more grace than, frankly, they deserved. But whatever, they just moved my timeline up a few weeks. In fact, it saved me from two weeks of totally phoning it in. Getting fired didn't bother me too much. I was going to be out of there by February, and while I'm a little bummed I didn't get to leave on my own terms, I was pretty happy to wake up and not have to go to work the next day. And this followed a two week break, so it was just extended vacation. I had another interview lined up for the next day anyway, which I'd set up over the Christmas break while planning my exit strategy. The place I was interviewing was another kids martial arts program, in fact I'd already interviewed there and been offered a job over a year before, so I felt pretty good about my chances.

So one mere day after I was "let go," I was driving in my 1996 Buick Regal up the majestic freeway that is the 405, marveling at the scenery as it passed my by at 14 miles an hour. All of a sudden, I started to feel the car stuttering. I looked at the hood and smoke was pouring out. "Oh boy," I said to my friend on the phone - because OF COURSE I was on the cell while driving - "this is bad."

I pulled over to the shoulder and got out. The situation did not look good. My car was twelve years old, and had 145,000 miles on it, but I wasn't expecting the smoldering wreck just yet.

"What's going on?" asked Mike on the phone, because I would NEVER think about interrupting an important cell phone conversation because of something as trivial as vehicular immolation.

"My car appears to be exploding," I said. "Hey, could you look up the non-emergency number for the fire department?" I knew that someone had to come help out with the car, but didn't quite feel the drastic urgency to call 911 for that. I mean, the car was simply pouring acrid black smoke into the air; I think of 911 as the number to call after I've been shot but before I bleed out.

I got the number, called and explained the situation. While talking I examined the hood of my car, which was starting to blister like the cheese on a tuna melt left too long in the toaster oven.

"You need to call 911."

Once again, another blow against selflessness.

I called 911, and was immediately put on hold. There better be a life and death domestic violence call on the other line, I thought. I made good use of the time to walk a safe distance away from my car. Even though I know intellectually that cars don't blow up, I've seen it so many times in movies that, in my mind, the image following a smoking car is an exploding car.

Finally the operator picked up and asked me the nature of my emergency. "Hi, I'm on the 405 northbound just south of the 101 interchange, and I had to pull over because my car started smoking." I looked at my car and saw what looked like small flames lapping at the front tire, but it was hard to tell because I had retreated to a safe distance of approximately 2 miles. "I'm not sure if it's on fire, but there's a lot of smoke and..."

BOOM!

"Ok, it's definitely on fire."

And it was indeed a spectacular wreck. The front half of my car was completely engulfed in flames. Thick, thick black smoke poured out of the hood, drifted across the right two lanes, and the rising column was so high that cars from a mile back around the bend had already pulled over.

A bit down the road, I saw a small black car pull over. A very nice woman climbed out to see if I was ok. She was very nice, very friendly, and obviously a great Samaritan. "Thank you so much for pulling over," I said.

"Oh, for sure honey," she said. "I'm just doing what Jesus put me down here to do."

...........................

"Ahhhhh. Yeah"

"You don't worry now, Jesus will see you through this. He's with you."

... "Indeed." Yeah, lost the job yesterday, lost the car today. I'm definitely only seeing one set of footprints now.


And so 2008 began. Four days in and my job imploded and my car exploded. But I'm an optimist. One thing always leads to another, and as long as you have the right attitude, it always leads to something better. I started this post back in January, and it looks like I'll manage to finish it before the end of the year. Again, that's me being optimistic. I'm pretty happy where I am now, and I wouldn't be here if I hadn't gotten fired all those months ago. So am I actually grateful to those people who fired me? No, not at all. They sandbagged me in the most cowardly, malicious way possible. But I'm glad I'm not there anymore. In fact, one could say that my car explosion has led me to finally get back to writing, after nearly two years. So really, the whole world should be grateful.

Recycling is Good for the Environment

There's a little excitement at work these days, involving one of my subordinates, who has become an insubordinate (see what I did there?), and all signs point to a magnificent installment here on the richstud dot com, but for the moment I'm dredging up a bit of writing from my college days. I hope you enjoy.



Used Vehicles

“No, it’s not a mid-life crisis, I just need a new car.”

“Of course, sir,” replied the effusive salesman. “That’s not at all what I was implying. I simply meant, Winston, that you were probably looking for something sleek and modern.”

“The word I had in mind was ‘refined.’”

The salesman nodded seriously. “Of course Winston. If you’ll just follow me this way, I think we have something that will appeal to you.”

Winston followed the young salesman, self-consciously unbuttoning his suit, trying to look more relaxed. They passed several rows of Buicks and Fords before stopping in front of a grid of Porches.

“We just got these in a few days ago,” the salesman claimed. Winston tried to remember his name, Bill or Chuck or some enthusiastic, earnest name like that. Hell, maybe his name was Earnest. “Of course, they’re as new as any car could possibly be and still qualify as ‘used.’ You’ll look good inside one of these.”

“Look, Earnest…”

“…Chuck,” the salesman corrected, never breaking his smile.

“…Chuck. Look. These are nice cars, but I’m looking for something a little more practical. I’ve got a wife and two kids, a dog and a cat. God forbid we should all have to be in the car at the same time, but if it’s got to happen I need a car that can fit us all.”

Chuck clasped his hands in front of him, pursed his lips and closed his eyes, apparently praying to the patron saint of high commissions. “Winston,” he said. “Winston, of course I could have showed you the ‘economy’ cars. I could have taken you to, say, the Pontiacs, or the Subarus, which are nice vehicles, but I look at you and I think ‘here’s a man who deserves a little more.’ It’s the details, like the cufflinks. A man with cufflinks like you doesn’t drive a Subaru, he drives a Porsche.”

Winston sighed. “Look, thank you, but I don’t want a sports car. My Buick is starting to go the way of all cars after a decade or two, and I’m looking for something equally functional but more comfortable. That’s all.”

Chuck tilted his head back as he took in this information. “Of course Winston, I think I can help you out there. Just follow me.”

They passed a few rows of four-door Volkswagons and Saabs. “Right this way,” called Chuck.

“Actually,” Winston tried to say, “what about these…”

“I think you’ll really like what I’m about to show you, Winston,” Chuck interrupted with a smile, and kept walking. Winston followed, scowling.

I'm sure I will, he thought.

After dinner that night, when he had sent Mary and Elliot up to the third floor study to do their middle and high school homework, he looked at his wife. Their meals had been a little bland lately, due to whatever diet she was on currently, where she could only consume raw lettuce and unsweetened water or whatever, which baffled him since she hadn’t gained ten pounds since they’d married. Her skin showed a few wrinkles, but her brown hair wasn’t thinning or graying. Of course, she’d been a redhead when they met but…well, he’d aged a little himself.

“Sally,” he said cautiously, “I’m thinking about buying a new car.”

He’d expected some enthusiasm, maybe an inquiry as to what kind of car he was looking at, perhaps relief that he might finally get rid of the sedan they’d taken on their honeymoon. Instead, his wife instantly grew solemn. “What’s wrong with the Buick?”

“What do mean, ‘what’s wrong with it?’ It’s seventeen years old.”

There was a pregnant pause while Sally looked at him with probing eyes. “It just seems like a random time for a new car, is all.”

“But we’ve had that car since we married. I was a clerk then, now I’m a vice-president,” he rubbed his wife’s back through her caramel-colored cashmere sweater. When had she bought that? Winston made a mental note to peruse the credit card statement more thoroughly. “I’ve got a beautiful family, only a few gray hairs, a house with only a few years left of mortgage, and now I want a new car to go with them. Besides, I was looking at used cars.”

Sally looked at him under her chestnut bangs. “Are you feeling all right?” She asked.

Winston gasped. “Sure, of course. Why?”

“You’re just acting a little strange all of a sudden.”

“Strange? I thought you’d be a little more enthusiastic about the idea, instead you just look worried.”

Sally reached out to her husband’s arm. “I’m just concerned that you’re getting depressed.”
Winston paused, shocked, then laughed. “Honey, don’t tell me that you think…are you implying that just because I want a new car I’m starting that whole mid-life crisis thing?”

“Well, no,” she bit her lip. “But I want to make sure you’re happy, that's all.”

Winston turned away and paced around the room. “The car salesman today was implying the same thing. He…”

“When did you see a car salesman?”

“This afternoon. I took the afternoon off work and went, you know, window shopping.”

“Oh honey,” Sally worried, “you’re not unhappy with your job, are you?”

Winston huffed in exasperation. “Because I want a new car?” He took a deep breath, walked over to his wife and embraced her. “Sally, I know I’m almost fifty. I know we’ve seen some of our friends divorce, and I know that you’re concerned about me.” She looked up at him. “But mid-life crisises – crisi? – either way, they aren’t for me.”

She nestled her face into his collarbone, “Ok honey, as long as you’re happy.”

For the remaining three days of the workweek, Winston resisted the urge to car shop. Sally had dropped the mid-life crisis challenge, and he wasn’t going to prove her right. He left work on Friday two hours early, to beat the rush of everyone who left one hour early to beat rush hour, and drove home leisurely, trying to think of positive things about his car. Well the air stays in the tires, and the automatic windows still work. There was a jolt as the transmission stuttered. The broken antenna prevents me from hearing all the crap on the radio…
He stopped to pick up some flowers, and ten minutes later pulled into his driveway. Sally would be surprised to see him home this early. Kind of like how Janice next door – and her gardner – had been surprised to see Andrew home so early two months ago. Fortunately he didn’t have to worry about that with Sally.

The dog announced Winston’s presence immediately, and Sally came darting out of the bedroom. They greeted with kisses, and Winston explained his early return.

“I’ll put some coffee on,” said Sally.

“Great, I’ll go change.” He headed back into the bedroom, tossed his jacket over the desk chair, and sat down on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes. He always sat on Sally’s side, because the cat liked to sleep on his. The drawer of his wife’s bedside table was ajar, and inside he could see the spine of a book. He didn’t recognize the cover, so he pulled it out.
What the hell? Winston held up the thick paperback book. How to Survive Your Husband’s Midlife Crisis. Had Sally bought this? Obviously she had, since it was in her bedside table. Unless she’d borrowed it from Janice. Did Sally think their marriage was going the way of Janice’s and Andrew’s? Was all of this just because he wanted a new car? He hadn’t thought his idea would be taken so seriously.

“Honey,” he said to Sally, back in the kitchen, “I don’t think I want a new car anymore.”

He expected her to be happy. Instead, Sally looked sadly at him. “Oh honey, if you really wanted the car you shouldn’t give up on it.”

What? “No, it was a whim, a temporary urge.”

Sally looked at her husband. “Winston, is everything ok?”

Winston coughed in astonishment. “Yes, everything’s fine. Why do you keep asking me that?”

“Well…” Sally stroked her ponytail nervously “You’ve been acting so strange, what with this deal about the new car, saying first you want one, then you don’t. I worry that you’re getting depressed with these constant mood swings.”

Winston wondered if that book had been putting these ideas in her head. “What mood swings? Deliberating the purchase of a new car doesn’t mean I’m having emotional problems.”

“I’m just concerned, that’s all,” his wife shot back, hurt.

Winston contained his anger. “Look, I’m fine, I’m not having a mid-life crisis, and I don’t want a new car.” He took a deep, calming, breath. “What’s for dinner?”

The next Wednesday, Winston left work frustrated. Accounting firms were brutal when April 15 was just around the corner, and crisis after crisis was pouring in. He got in his car and turned the key, and as it revved to life the ‘service engine soon’ light came on. “Goddamn it,” he growled. Ignoring the light, he pulled out into rush hour. The drive was slow, and he wished the radio worked so he could hear a traffic report. Down the highway the large sign of the car dealership loomed into view. He turned his eyes as the Buick crawled along, but the temptation grew stronger with proximity. I could just stop in to look for a second, he thought. I could wait out the traffic and browse a little.

He pulled in. Before he’d gotten ten paces from his raggedy Buick, a cheerful young saleswoman, he hadn’t seen many of those, sidled up to him.

“Hello sir,” she said through a brilliant smile. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I’m just browsing,” he replied, noting that she was a redhead.

“We’ll browsing for what, maybe I can help?”

Winston held his breath, and looked over the lot. The cars stood like military personnel awaiting inspection.

“Honestly,” he said slowly, “I’m in the mood for something a little sporty.”

Turtle Power

As I'm sure you all know, recently the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles made their triumphant return to theaters. This is a big deal for me, because Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Raphael are a huge part of my life. In fact, I'd say that after my parents, the Ninja Turtles are the most influential figures in my life.

Perhaps you think I'm joking; perhaps you are a fool. I watched the first Ninja Turtles movie when I was six. As soon as the credits rolled I went to my parents and said, "I want to do that." My parents went back and forth for a bit, but after a little deliberation they went out and bought me a giant green turtle suit.

No, actually they let me sign up for Karate, an action which set the course for the rest of my life. Two roads diverged, and I, I took the path of bad metaphors. And every direction in my life since then derived from that decision. Almost seventeen years now, and for better and worse my thoughts, my actions, my values, are so wrapped up in martial ethos that I can't conceive of my life had I not seen that movie so long ago.

Martial arts led me to Japan after high school; I applied to Tufts University solely - solely - because I wanted to train at a particular Kung Fu school in Boston, which led me to the Naked Quad Run which, besides being a defining moment in my life, also precipitated this blog. So I guess everything goes full circle.

Post college I moved to LA to pursue a career in fight choreography; after a few months of not getting much going on that, I got a job teaching, which was just going to be a part time gig, but it turned into a full job, one that I really love, maybe even a career, who knows. But ultimately I'm here in LA, now, teaching karate for a living, because I saw some stupid movie when I was six.

And now my future might involve opening my own school one day. Or maybe not. I might get sick of martial arts and become, I don't know, a ladies shoe designer. But if so, it'll be because, ultimately, I saw some idiot movie about giant Karate turtles. I'm not sure how many people can say that watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was the most influential moment of their lives, but I'm proud to make that claim. Seventeen years behind me, and looking at the infinite expanse of potentials in my future, too vast to even start to comprehend or anticipate, I only need to say,"Cowabunga, dudes."

Pleasant Surprise

By virtue of living in LA, I'm often asked, "So, seen any celebrities out there?" My first reply is "Only every time I look in the mirror!" but after the asking party has calmed down from his hysterical laughter, I brag that celebrity sightings are for amatures. I have done much, much better. And like almost everything else, I owe it to martial arts.

Martial arts is my job and my hobby: teaching at the Karate school and training at a school that teaches Krav Maga. Krav Maga is a fine martial art, and it's gotten a lot of media attention out here, so besides the hundreds of members, there are a lot of celebrities who have done Krav Maga, either at the training center or privately, for upcoming movies etc. A few months ago I was in class, and a new guy walked in. He was about my height, black, little goatee, and very familiar looking. He looked an awful lot like Harold Perrineau, whom you may know as Michael from LOST, or Mercutio from the more recent Romeo and Juliet, or even Link from the second and third Matrix movies.

Damn that guy looks a lot like Michael from LOST, I thought. If only I could confirm his name is Harold. Fortunately I had a plan: we do a lot of partner drills, so I'd just start working with him, introduce myself, he'd give me his name, and I'd know.

That class I never got to work with him, so the mystery went unsolved. Next week, however, he came to class again, and this time I made sure to work with him on a drill. I stuck out my hand and said, "Kenny."

He shook it - the moment of truth approached! - and said, "Harold."

"Damn right you are!" I did not say.

Harold turned out to be pretty cool. His wife was in the class as well, in fact I think she had started before he had, so maybe that's how he got into it. Lucky I hadn't hit on her yet.

The Karate school I work at is an all kids program. There are four separate schools in the company, one in LA and three in the Valley. We're kind of an upscale Karate school, which I didn't even know was possible. I'd always thought Karate schools were rickety one room affairs that always looked a good kick away from falling down, and then I get hired at this place that's like the Saks Fifth Avenue of martial arts. So we're ritzy, and as such, we attract a certain number of celebrity parents. I won't reveal any identities, but suffice it to say that some of the moms we get in are jaw-droppingly gorgeous. There is one woman, the girlfriend of a definite celebrity, who is without a doubt the hottest girl I've ever seen in my life. That is not hyperbole. It's like if I went to China and said, "That is without a doubt the longest wall I have ever seen in my life." She's the Great Wall of Hottness.

We have writers, producers, directors and actors, but there is only one celebrity attached to the school whose identity I plan to reveal. He's someone with a martial arts background, and the first time I met him was during weekly staff training. He's not part of the staff, just a friend of my boss. He's someone very likely to appear on VH1's I Love the 80s. His most known role was as a Harley-riding rogue bounty hunter with long flowing tresses. His surname is a homophone for plural humpless camels. His identity: Lorenzo Lamas.

That's right, I train with the RENEGADE.

And he seems like a pretty cool guy. Laid back, just interested in training. Just yesterday we were talking before class started, and somehow the topic veered towards fatherhood.

"Are you a father?" he asked.

I wasn't sure how to answer. I have to say, that's not a question I get a lot. "Do you seriously think you'd have a chance with a girl like me?" Sure, I get that all the time. I've got dozens of stock responses. However, when Lorenzo asked "are you a father?" my first thoughts were along the lines of, "How dumb do I look?" But I didn't want to be that sarcastic with the Renegade, since he has more children than many small villages. I finally settled on "No."

"You know, I was a father at 24," he said. "And when it happened, it was a pleasant surprise."

"Well, if it's a surprise for me," I said, "I certainly hope it's a pleasant one." Really I think the only surprise would be finding out how fast I could get my luggage packed. And this even with a radical lightening of my attitude towards children. Yet another thing I owe to martial arts, specifically this teaching job. I taught kids before, at home before I went to college, but they were a little older, and although I was good at teaching the technical aspects, I just didn't like children.

That doesn't mean that I though they were evil, or anything like that. But all the characteristics that people found cute in children just rubbed me the wrong way. Proponents of children would always say, "I just love how they're so innocent, and they always tell you what they're thinking." Great, so they're dumb and irritating. Bring 'em on over. I can't think of any two traits that scream "endearing" so much as ignorance and tactlessness. So my reaction to children, except in the narrow venue of teaching the karate, was revulsion. If I was in a social setting - dinner party with friends of my parents say - and a kid walked near me, it may as well have been a giant tarantula.

Everyone: "Aww, isn't he cute!"

Me: "Get that thing away from me."

If I'd ever been "surprised" with a kid, I would have probably denied his existence well into middle school. Him: "Daddy, can you help me with my algebra?" Me: "I could if I knew who you were, little buddy." Him: "Mommy! Daddy's ignoring me again!" Her: You bastard! Why can't you admit we have a son!" Me: "Who's this 'we' you keep talking about?"

Eventually I got a little older and wiser, though, I realized that, as with all things, the root of the problem was me. Kids would be kids; sure they were dumb, but the problem was my inability to relate to them. Just like a guy who writes off his romantic failings by saying "women are dumb," I was doing the same about kids. However, realizing the problem in oneself is the first step towards overcoming it, and I immediately set out solving my character failing by avoiding children whenever possible, including crossing to the other side of the street if necessary.

I could ignore it for a while, but eventually I began to regard my awkwardness with children as a huge stain on my personality. I envied severely my friends who could relate to little kids so well. When I got this job teaching, at a karate program that focused entirely on kids, I finally got the chance to learn.

Suffice it to say, I've learned a lot. My friends are shocked to hear me say things like, "I love my kids." I'm a little shocked to hear it was well, without replacing "my" with "to hit." About two months ago I realized that I'd achieved my goal of being "good" with kids. That's a milestone for me; a huge step on the road to manliness. And then a few days later I finally learned how to drive a stick, so that was a big week for me.

So I'm not averse to kids any more. I've come a long way from the days when I would recoil from a child like it was a three-and-a-half foot open wound. I don't adore them unconditionally, though. Anyone who says children are innocent is a damn fool. Children are not innocent. They are malicious, mal-intentioned little beasts. But they're alright. They're malleable. I still have no desire for a kid of my own, but at least now, if some future girlfriend or even (gulp!) wife one days says, "Kenny, I'm pregnant," I know I have the maturity and experience to not panic, not regard my life as over, but to look her in the eye and say:

"Who are you?"

The Greatest Idea Ever

Despite the general excellence of my life here in LA, I nearly packed my bags for New York City. What could take me away from my paradise of perfect weather, gorgous women, and fantastic emplyment? Four words that I heard on the radio.

I was driving home from work a fortnight ago (and yes, I did wait two weeks to tell this story just so I could use the word fortnight). The radio was on scan, which is how I listen to it. I was cruising down the 405 at a steady eight miles an hour, listening to the melange of bad radio:

"...nomoneydownpricedoesnotincludetaxtagstitlestireswiperfluid...SCAN ....And Satan is a SINNER who PERVERTS the WILL of GOD!...SCAN...Sugar Mama Speed Dating is catching hold...SCAN ...Are child custody battles ruining your life? Then call..."

Wait.

Did I just hear...?

I frantically jammed the button on my radio, not quickly enough to stop on the right station. I scanned backwards, trying to find the station I'd passed, hoping it wasn't one of those "in between" stations, the ones that actually play songs you want to hear, but their frequency is crunched between nationally syndicated behemoths, so the radio stops on, say, "Let's Get it On," and you're all excited, until you realize that it's being mixed with static and Three Doors Down.

But I found the station again, and thank God, they were still talking about Sugar Mama Speed Dating:

"...in New York, apparently, they've set up this thing where, it's like speed dating, but the women have to be over 40 and have over $4 million, and the men are 28 and younger..."

Sugar Mama Speed Dating.

I don't know who came up with this idea, but he deserves, at minimum, a Nobel Prize. If this were taking place in LA, I would quit my job immediately and become a full-time speed dater. I mean, $4 million? That's a ton of money. It's pretty likely a women that rich is taking care of herself. She probably has more regularly scheduled matinence than a Bentley. And if she's looking for a guy in his mid-twenties, I think we all know it's not about candlelit dinners.

I have had my eye out for a rich older woman since I was, I don't know, about sixteen. This is absolutely true. I had grand aspirations to marry...I believe it was a dermatologist. I'll bet there are lots of dermatologists in the Big Apple, and if I weren't enjoying my job so much, I would probably head for New York to find Mrs. Robinson right now. This post would start "I'm on my way to New York to try Sugar Mama Speed Dating..." But my job is great, and last Thursday, the day after Valentines, I had a class for the ages.

The youngest kids we teach at the Karate school are four and five. They have a class all to themselves, and even though we teach them punches and kicks, at that level it's really all about respect, discipline, and social interaction. On Thursdays that class is really small, usually just two kids, Zachary and Ethan. The Thursday a fortnight ago we had a trial student, a girl named Hannah. She was very nice, and cute, just like every other 4-year-old, and Zachary decided to get a little crush on her.

The kids all enter the dojo floor, and I ask them all to get into basic stance, and Zachary looks at Hannah and says, "Hannah, stand like this!" We start stretching, and he continues to be helpful: "It's like this Hannah!" We start punching: "Hannah, punch like this!" It was heartwarming. In the middle of the class I have them stand in basic stance while I get some props, I turn my head away, and when I look back, Zachary is hugging Hannah! He just stepped out of line and wrapped his arms around her! "Zachary! What the hell are you doing!" is what I did not say, although I came really close. I know it's innocent and all, but seriously. He didn't even buy her a drink first.

The rest of the class I labored to keep Zachary away from Hannah. When we sat down in the Sensei's Circle to do a little meditation, he said, "I'm going to sit next to Hannah!" And even for a cold-hearted person like me, it was tough to say, "why don't you come sit next to Sensei," on the other side of the circle. "Okay!" he said, obligingly but still with all the frustration of unrequited love a four year old can know.

Hannah did sign up for Karate, but I noticed her parents started bringing her to a different class. I don't know if that is because of the schedule, or because of the little Don Juan. Yesterday Zachary talked about her, while were were cleaning up the stuff from an obstacle course. "Remember when my friend helped me clean up! Wasn't that really nice!"

Poor kid. He probably doesn't even realize what's going on. He just remembers that she was nice. Just wants to be her friend. Might not even see her again.

"Yes Zachary, she was very nice." I don't want him to get sad, or hurt that she's not around. You wouldn't think a four year old could hold someone in his heart like that, but I guess he can. God forbid he grow up, bitter and cynical, the kind of guy that would contemplate moving across the country to capitalize on wealthy, bored women. Zachary will probably ask about Hannah again next week. Heardhearted as I am, I don't think I could tell him that, just maybe, he's better off forgetting her.