ass-kicking rethinking

Earlier today, I hit the mats at the New York Aikikai for my third Aikido class. It’s good to be back to training a martial art regularly, after my eight or nine month self-imposed hiatus – last summer, I had recurrently dislocated my right shoulder while sparring in preparation for a mixed martial arts (i.e. “no holds barred”) tournament, and I took the time off to rest up my rotator cuff before seriously damaging myself. During the break, however, I started giving some serious thought to my motivation for training, as with a bit of distance, I began to see the brutal violence inherent in Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu (the two arts I was studying at the time) didn’t square well with my more peaceful overall view of the world.

So, in the hopes of finding an art more philosophically in tune with myself, I decided to return to Aikido, which I had studied for about eight months while a student at Yale. A system of throws and joint locks derived from jujitsu, Aikido focuses not on punching or kicking opponents, but on using their own energy to gain control of them or to throw them away. Frequently referred to as “the art of peace,” Aikido is effective while inherently non-aggressive, focusing on neutralizing opponents without injuring them. So far, at least, it seems like the perfect match, and I’m thinking I may jettison the other arts in favor of training solely Aikido.

And, as an added bonus, I’ve also been perversely enjoying the exceeding frustration of starting a complicated art as a complete beginner. It’s been a while since I’ve forced myself to regularly do something at which I’m so very, very bad.

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wi-fry II

Despite the large signs plastered all over the windows of the McDonalds on 51st and Broadway, none of the four cashiers I spoke with had a clue about the internet access pilot. Seems the idea may not be quite ready for a national roll-out.

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bar none

One of the few downsides to leaving the East Side was an increase in distance between myself and the Campbell Apartment, one of New York’s finest bars for early-evening drinks dates, martini meetings, and general impressing of others.

Thanks to the investigative efforts of my esteemed Cyan colleague Colin, however, I have, fortunately, discovered an able replacement quite close to home: Single-Room Occupancy, located just two blocks up (on 53rd, slightly East of 9th). Entrance is through a brownstone basement door, largely unmarked save a single green sconce. Ring the buzzer for admittance into the small space, sparsely decorated and lit solely by recessed glowing tiles in the roof and floor. No liquor, just an excellent assortment of imported beers and fine wines, served in tasteful fluted glassware. Sort of neo-minimalist speak-easy chic.

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the hirsute pursuit

Beard-growing is still going strong, and I’m finally edging away from the “like, zoinks, Scoob” phase of Shaggy-style scruffy stubble, on towards actual beardedness. Excellent, albeit itchy, progress.

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a hairy situation

I decided yesterday morning that now might be a good time to grow a beard. Struck by curiosity (and, frankly, laziness) I decided to skip shaving, and did so again today. By now, I’ve accumulated just enough stubble to look vaguely haggard, and to determine that my beard becomes redder with each passing year (a genetic gift from an apparently red-bearded great-grandfather). The plan is to keep it up until (as happened the last time I attempted this exercise, on approximately the fifth day) most of the women I know tell me to drop everything, head to the bathroom, and shave immediately.

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received wisdom

“I couldn’t even meet Friday’s payroll, and the terrible thing about it is that I wasn’t even worried. I knew I’d make something happen. And I did. That comes from cojones. That comes from being in a bullring and seeing the horns come at you. I shit in my pants, but I stayed there.”

– legendary producer Robert Evans, on making movies.

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