White Lightning Axiom: Redux: Faster, More, HURRY!

Friday, April 27, 2007


Faster, More, HURRY!

Well, the last few days have been ... gone in a trice. Perhaps it's the TSD (taking a tip from Charlie on the PA Turnpike here) that is shortening my days and giving me the prepotency to ignore the less glamorous aspects of my engagement with reality. Work issues, although oppressive and unending (I am now on phone support duty for the weekend) seem to hold less sway over me. Perhaps it was my unparalleled planning (read: luck) that I mowed the pastoral expanse AND the back 50 last night before taking the kids to TSD practice. You see, it rained for 40 days and 40 nights over the last few hours. That would mean the spring growth would be nearly impossible to hack down to size next weekend and I would be slaving away on the lawn for HOURS instead of concentrating on the garden or flower beds. I could only assume that the genetically altered inhabitants of the blighted jungle would try to usurp the Haupertonian empire and conduct a putsch against me ... probably aided by the Twin Tyrants of Turpitude. Nope, the lawn is mowed so I need not dither with that nonsense. All the Mountains of Mastodon Manure have been leveled so the Weekend Doggie Dip Date has been obviated. Since I'm on duty, I'll not see much of the Ever Tolerant Mrs or the Tyrants. All the better to do lawn work till the inevitable signal flare from the Titanic is sent up. I'll be certainly quite circumspect when that happens.

Going back to the TSD class. Over the last few days, I'm fairly certain that I have punished every sweat gland on my body to a point where they have just about given up hope of ever being the same again. Nothing like a 500% turnover of body fluids. Part of this has to do with the intense scrutiny of my forms for the upcoming test in a few weeks. Yep, the Tyrants are going to attempt their Yellow Belt and I'm shooting for the Green. At that point, I'll start on my staff forms (Korean:bong) and I'll be eligible to be buffeted about the head and shoulders in sparring. Of course, not that I've managed to crack the code of higher kicks (rotate your back foot instead of twisting your knee-cap off, dummy), I'll have a slim chance of dishing out at least a tenth of what I graciously accept (thank you sir, may I have another!) My limbs are still quite stubbornly disobedient in many cases. I just cannot seem to get the precision down and that is more damaging to my unwitting partners. More than once I've given a hearty, swift kick to what I was envisioning as the Solar Plexus only to have the foot firmly contact the 'man junk'. The target is rarely amused. I've gotten two nicknames out of this ... one is the 'Steel Crane' for my jerky, robotic formality in which I grind through my forms. The other, is "Uggghhhhhh!". Well, that's what they usually call me when I'm asking the prone figure grasping their groin after I've walloped them in the twig and berries if they are OK. Yeah, I'm sensitive like that.

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