Bout Night!

It was bout night in sword class...There I was, my first fight in class, surrounded by some of the best Tulsa has to offer. They came at me, ONE! Then ANOTHER! My skills were on auto pilot, I danced, I swerved, my blade gliding through the air like it knew what to do. There was the clank of steel on steel, the whirling of points, the thrusting of jagged edges against under-protected flesh.

I was handed my ass on a plate. I did manage to pull some really good fakes and score a coupla nice hits. Thanks to that seminar I managed to keep a few basics in mind which saved my ass for a bit. I was hit in the pinky, the wrist, the pancreas, a chop to the head during a bout that went to grappling, and one nice hit to the inner thigh that convinced me that I need to invest in a cup.
After the end of the fights the rest of the class went to Mr. Lucky's without me. I'm just flat broke so I couldn't go. Kind of a lonely feeling.
The world will turn and there'll be other bouts closer to pay-day. I'll get better and get hit less while scoring more hits of my own. For the first time in a very long time I am becoming conscious of my own sense of improvement. The world looks much less bleak through those eyes.
Oh well, I've got about half a swig of Calvados left. I'll use that to wash down an allergy pill and slide ever so wetly into bizarre, dream-laden sleep like a bus full of children into quicksand.
"Some day this war's gonna end..."

Swashbucklers Amok

Absolute HELL of a weekend. My fencing school hosted a seminar with three really bad-ass instructors. We are a tiny-ass school without mucho funds so I housed one of the instructors for the duration while Jon, the birth father of the school, housed another. The third moteled it. Friday night we partied. Early the next morning we headed out to the school where were waiting the other participants of the seminar. Saturday then became an all day hyper-intense rapier workout. My legs and shoulders were fire and pain. All the others were feeling the burn as well. By 4pm everyone's brains were mush. Awesome. After getting cleaned up we all met up at Killkenny's, an Irish pub/restaurant for dinner where my fool-ass was jumped in by Jon and the instructors into the deranged and bizarre art of Spunfechten. More on that later. More drinking more partying. Other bars, almost a fight with some goomba and a good finish to the night.
The next morning began the side-sword installment of the seminar. We spent over two hours warming up with crazy-ass exercises, many of which involved throwing a medicine ball at eachother. Nothin' but fun, babycakes! The rest of the day was spent learning to slice humans like ham. That night, you guessed it, party time.
We saw the instructors off Monday morning and felt good about the time spent over the last days and nights. Right now my inner thighs still burn with the sweet pain of improvement and I'm flat-as-a-fritter broke.
I swear, no one lives as well as me.

Manna From Hell

We had a little company meeting at the end of the day at work. The branch manager handed out envelopes to everyone. Inside of mine was a nice new hundred dollar bill. Oooh yummy! Me so velly much likey hundred dorrah! (I am aware that both Japanese and Chinese difficulties to pronounce L's and R's respectively would not be practiced by a single Asian individual. Lighten up, bitch.) So anypoop, I'll put that toward either a new sword or for drinking after the fencing seminar coming up. Either way, I win. Wow. Did I say that? See how much joy a hundred extra dollars can bring to someone? Wouldn't you like to see that joy continue in the life of someone like me? If you're not looked down upon shamefully by your friends and family, or if you are and wish to regain your dignity and self-respect, simply post a comment asking me where to send your check or money order for $100 or ANY amount so that joy will continue for someone like me.
Thanks, bitch.

Eye of the Crap Storm

Did laundry today at the 'mat on the corner of 32 Pl. and Peoria. I coulda used the machines at my apts. but some things are just more fun away from home. As the rags I call clothes spun in a dryer that had another plan, I went over to the Brook for to drink a little. There she was, I girl I've known on and off for a few years. Even had a little moment once. To protect her anonymity, we'll call her Christie X. Of all the messed up girls I know she is one of them. BUT...she is the only one with her head taped on close to straight. The only one with real guts. The only one who makes blue jeans cry out, "THANK YOU, SWEET GOD!". Actually some of the other girls I know make jeans do that, too, but not there at that moment in my vicinity. We chitty-chatted for a bit then said bye and had little huggie-poos.
I returned to the 'mat and threw my cold, wet rags into a dryer that worked. I then came home and puked out a little more of the story I started a while back. The one about Jesus, boy-whores, and hippos. It kinda gives the story away somewhat but hell, it's my style, bitch...

...Memshar, from under his stately robes produced the much-feared magical weapon. He leveled the sawed-off and let both barrels bark at the moribund mass that was Bufarba. Emptying in a great gush like an above-ground pool hit by a pick-up, Bufarba fell face-first into his own steaming tripe and offal...

More to come...or is there

?

Games With Cooked Flesh

I rode my bike out to Chandler Park where were held the Scottish Highland games XXV. I snuck in through the woods along an overgrown game trail I discovered when I used to go climbing/rappeling there years ago. Got there in time to see the women's' caber toss. SCARY. I met up with people from my sword class who were in period costume. We milled around the various booths and then caught the opening ceremonies for the day. Colors were held by the Native American Vets who were in war bonnets and the whole nine complete with rifles and jinglebells around their knees. They had a caller on the mic beating a small drum and they danced in procession toward the stage weaving in and out of eachother, stomping to the beat of the drum, bells jingling away, firing their rilfles in the air, holding the American, Oklahoman, and POW flags high. Simply fantastic. This was followed by the pipe&drum bands marching in and sounding glorious with those pipes wailing away. Now one piper alone is annoying. A hundred or more together is absolutely awesome.
The sun cooked away at our un-acclimated flesh, for we had such a mild Summer. I did not escape the deadly rays. My shoulders should be radiating for a while. I gobbled down a couple of meat pies and some haggis&chips then our group split up and I went in search of shade for to lighten my flask of Calvados. I only took a coupla swigs and realized that it was just too damn hot for drinking outside and I still had a good, hot ride home ahead of me.
When I got home the only thing lighter was my wallet. I spent almost 30 bucks just on food and beer. That coulda fed me for a month. I had a good time in spite of that. Now it's time to go ahead with the sipping and blatant abuse of allergy medicine.
"BLAIGH SHGAILEI AAGIESHA!"
Which not only is not Gaelic, but isn't ANY language and it doesn't mean anything.

The Bleeding Bank

Just got paid today and fully one half of it is already gone. I tried keeping a budget at one time but with the the unforeseen disasters happening lately, most of which are not mentioned on this blog, the budget strategy is out the fucking window. Somehow I make it, smiling all the while. It's because none of it really matters. There are people with nothing and they are glad for it.
As long as I can sit on my balcony in my pith helmet smoking a pipe and sipping Calvados or sit in the bath tub swilling Miller High Life, I'm where I want to be in the world. I'm very continental that way. I work to live, I don't live to work like most Americans. Suckers. Look at 'em. They bust their ass their whole lives and at the end all they have is a busted ass. No joys to speak of, no pleasant memories of simple daily pleasures, no sense of fulfillment. Nothing but bitter regret. Fuck that. I'll leave that to all you true strugglers out there. I sit here writing this in my pith helmet, pipe burning sweet, aromatic tobacco, and sipping my Calvados. When I'm down to my last 30 bucks I'll invest in a 30 pack of High Life and enough pre-packaged, frozen food to get me to the next pay day. Unlike most of you, I have a plan that can be achieved!
Tomorrow is the Scottish Highland games. I'll ride my bike out there and sneak in some of this fine hooch in my back pack, grub on over-priced fish, chips, and haggis, watch the games and the hot chicks in fantasy costumes, and get good-n-loaded. See? Another achievable plan. If you send me $59.95, I can show you how easy it is for YOU to achieve all you wildest dreams, just like me!
I feel sorry for all you saps.

Advanced Payment For Sin and Drowning Fisherman

SBC just sent me an email showing me my next bill. Forty dollars in CREDIT, BABY!! WHOOOO HOOOO!!!! It's gonna be me and the Old Crow this weekend, YAWZA!!!!
Other than that, my god...damn...tire on my bike is flat again. I JUST bought a new fucking tube and it's already shot. Also in the news, as I was driving to work this morning my tailgate popped down and as I was turning onto the Broken Arrow Expressway I slung the turbo 350 transmission that was back there out onto the street. That ALWAYS comes in handy. Nobody was hurt and the part of the housing that broke is easily replaceable. No big whoop.
Later that day, as I was driving home the river rescue unit was hard at it to save another drunk Mexican fisherman. He musta been REEAALL drunk since the river is so shallow due to hot weather lately that you can actually walk across it. I don't know why they bothered to bring the boat. This happens about two times a month during the warm months. They also found the badly decomposed body of a man in Crow Creek, which is next to my apartment complex and runs into the river. That's number two this year.
So, as you can see, we've had some improvements this year and thanks to higher taxes that these dumbfuck-rube fellow citizens of mine voted for, there might actually be more improvement on the way....For the nice neighborhoods.

Circles & Rubes

Back to almost normal. I rode my bike up 21st Street and I do mean up. Everything's uphill when you live next to a river. I was heading for Umberto's, the best damn pizza in town. As I was passing Woodward Park I heard "...And there's Deri! (Name changed to protect anonymity.)" J and T from sword class. J is a petite woman who is pretty cool. T is an experienced martial artist and looks like Doctor Who. The Tom Baker Dr. Who. He just got back from working security at the Burning Man festival out in the Nevada desert. He said there were some 35,000 people there this year. Counter culture sure is getting popular. After eating pizza I went downtown and entered Caz's. There they were again. When leaving J said "See ya later!" to which I replied, "At this rate you probably will."
I finished a coupla High Lifes and found my bike with the front tire flat. Again. Guess the patches don't hold for long. As I walked down Denver Ave., some old black crackhead woman was yelling across the street to some grizzly Adams hippy guy with a pack, "Where da fuck's mah money! I put mah trust in you!!!" As she walked briskly towards him, her friend was hailing somebody in a car to come over. "Shit." I thought. "I'm gonna get shot in the crossfire." I didn't.
I started writing another story that I don't intend to finish while at Umberto's and Caz's. Like ta heeyit heeyit go...

"Your about to see the real world, kid. A place where God doesn't give a damn."
"God love's everybody." Replied the kid.
"yeah, and he likes to watch."
The weathered man took a swig from his pint of vodka. He stood next to the bench outside the bus station where sat this kid, this dumb rube from some Midwestern noplace where no one's ever heard of a fluff girl. The kid sat there obviously not knowing what to do now that he actually made it there. Where to go, what to do, who to talk to. Details he neglected to consider while planning his fortune-finding exodus. He sat there just looking down at the duffle between his feet and not looking a day over eighteen.
"How old are you, kid?" Asked the weathered man. "Seventeen." Replied the kid, looking up at the man.
"Christ." The man said, more to himself than to the kid. Another swig. The kid remembered something someone had told him. In his best attempt at firmness with a stranger he said, "Look, I'm not gonna give you any---"
"You think I'm a fuckin' bum, you little prick?!"
"Well, your clothes...And you're drinking...And..."
"I may be a slob, but I'm no bum! Besides, what's wrong with a little midnight cocktail?"
The kid just looked down at his duffle between his feet. Yep. Still there. A car went by.
"Hey kid, I just though I'd give you a little advice, you know, you not being from the big city and what not..."
"Like what?" The kid asked genuinely interested in anything that might be of value from this guy, the only one he knew here.
"You got a job lined up?"
"Not yet, but I gotta buncha money to keep me goin' 'till I get one."
"Wow, this kid is dumb!" Thought the man. "Get a job quick before it runs out. It'll run out fast here."
"I'll get a job easy in a city like this. There must be tons of jobs."
"Fucking christ." The man, to himself, said as before. Another swig. Almost empty. "Let me tell you something about jobs around here. If you blow all your money like a lotta dumb hayseeds like you do when they get here, you may end up doing something you never thought you would or could do." He finished the pint. "See those kids across the street?"
There were eight of them at a bus stop bench. They looked anywhere between twelve and eighteen or nineteen. Six boys. Two girls who were the oldest and the youngest. All dressed like they're going to a rock show. Tight leather, torn denim, piercings, brightly dyed hair, don't-give-a-shit-attitudes, whistling, yelling, and waving at cars passing by. One of the cars slowed to a stop in front of the group.
"Watch this, kid." The man pointed.
One of the boys went around to the driver's side to talk with him. He then went around and got in the passenger-side and the car drove away.
"D'ja see that?" Weathered man asked. "You know what those kids are doing?"
"Well, it looks like they're trying to hitch hike to a concert or something. I heard of kids doin' that in the cities."
"Jesus, junior, you're doomed. No, they're working!"...

I just realized that this is the second story I've posted that involves boy prostitutes. That's fucked up.

Art of Defence

I've taken up swordplay lately. Not like those prancy-fat-boy-D&D -Trekkie-SCA-duct-tape-is-period era-losers, oh HELL no. I've found a group of people who train in the real deal. That's for me, turkeys. No half-assin' about it. True martial arts. From the West, even.
After class, which consists of rapier and sidesword on Wednesdays; longsword and grappling on Thursdays, we go to Mr. Lucky's for beer. $4.50 pitchers. Damn, have I made it to heaven? Learn how to kill with edged weapons, then go drink. What the Hell is there to cry about? I may have to change the whole look of this blog if things keep going this way. There's even a large, unexplainable sum of money in my checking account. I was down to about $100 or less to get me to next Friday and now there's almost $400! What the fuck, people?!
This can only mean I'm going to end up with syphilis. Or wind up piloting a wheelchair by blowing into a straw. Maybe a little from column A and a little from column B. I DID run over a carpet nail and had to patch the front tire of my bike. A breeze compared to the nail in the tire of my truck earlier this week.
I guess in order to keep this in line, I will confide in you all that I've always wanted to die in a sword fight. So I guess I'm training for my own death.
I hope somebody brings a video camera.

Bittersweet Struggling

Please, please, please forgive me for not writing anything lately! I don't mean to disappoint you, my fans, but afterall, you suck because you don't exist so please to go fucking yourself.

What a week. Toil. Frustration. Heat. Sweat. Mechanical crap. Flat tire. Miniscule paycheck. I am indeed living the life. Struggle, struggle, struggle. Use up your little island. Struggle, struggle, struggle to the next one. If it's possible to swim uphill, I'll find a way.

Not too long ago I confiscated all three keys to my apartment from my lunatic part-time girlfriends. I'd had enough. It was my own fault. "Here you go; come over ANY time."
The problem with telling women like this to come over ANY time is that they do. Now, they are all aware of each other and I am aware they see other guys and we're all cool with it. I had it made. Like I said, however, they came over ANY time. 2am, 6am, 11pm, whenever. NEVER on a weekend. ALWAYS when I had to work the next day. Eating what little food was in the fridge, drinking my beer, cutting my fucking hair while I try to sleep. Leaving their damn skivies and taking all my shirts. What the HELL?! On the phone all the damn time. I knew I would come home from work to my own apartment wherein would be a party I'm not invited to.
"Hand in your keys, ladies. I'm becoming a monk."
They did. I didn't.
Sure is quiet in here.