Evolution of a geek

There is no such thing as useless knowledge. Sam, age six and budding space cadet recently waved a Lego minifig polearm at me and asked what it was. Drawing on my vast store of information on mediaeval weaponry, I told him that it was a spetum.

Now, a spetum is an object that I don’t tend to encounter in the run of a day, yet in my head resides a fairly comprehensive catalogue of items with which my illustrious ancestors bashed each other over the head.

Not to mention that I can still remember that at Ragnarok (in Norse mythology, the final battle that will destroy creation) Vidar is the god who will slay the wolf Fenris.

I can also tell you that in original AD&D, a magic-user could fire one magic missile per level, but in the 2^nd Edition, they lowered it to one missile for every two levels to cut down on the arcane Uzi effect.

I can’t remember all of the Twelve Labours of Heracles, though. Nobody’s perfect.

So, why have I retained all this information? Easy. I like it. The more interesting question, at least for me, is how it got there. Is it possible to trace the evolution of a fan of the heroic fantasy genre?

Of course! Off we go. Our story begins with a young lad steeped in Robin Hood, King Arthur, Norse mythology and the Wizard of Oz (the books, not the film. Blech). I blame my parents. They kept giving me books.

Then I graduated into Greek mythology and the Welsh and Celtic legends. My favourite stories had swordplay, derring-do, lost (and found) princes, damsels in distress (and dat dress), rescued princesses, slain dragons, et cetera.

Then I found the Lord of the Rings and any hope of my becoming anything other than a fantasy geek were forever consigned to blissful oblivion. I’d loved the Hobbit for years, but LOTR was something else again. I first read it when I was ten, and I’ve read it at least once every year since. I’ve even read the whole thing aloud. That took awhile, but I really recommend it. You pay more attention to what you’re reading and Tolkien’s gift for evocative description is best appreciated out loud. And yes, I like Peter Jackson’s imagining of the book. He doesn’t quite “match my sweet little ‘magination,” to borrow from Paul Simon, but he’ll do nicely.

By far the final nail in the coffin was my sister’s introducing me to Advanced Dungeons and Dragons (AD&D). I can’t remember where she started playing, but I fell into it face-first and have been happily drowning ever since. The chance to beat up monsters, steal treasure and have the most outrageous adventures is something that no ten-year-old should be without, as far as I’m concerned.

At first it was just playing that caught my attention. Then I got curious about the worlds that TSR, the creators of AD&D had invented to house their game. I wanted to know every detail of their geography, which critters lived where and why, what their habits were and how they interacted with the neighbours. I was the kid staying up late trying to figure out how elves could live comfortably in trees. Easy answer – Really, really big trees.

So I started gravitating to books rich in descriptive detail about the worlds they portrayed. LOTR is a good example, as are the works of Robin McKinley, David Eddings and Anne McCaffrey’s Pern series.

Books with maps were (and still are) good. That’s another blog entry, but let’s just say one of my favourite books is my Atlas of Middle-Earth, by Karen Wynn Fonstad. It even tells you how fast Shadowfax can run compared to a normal horse. My kinda book.

As for what I like to read these days. . . . .swashbuckling tales of high excitement, detailed natural histories of places and critters neverwhere and neverwhen, it’s all compelling and all wonderful stuff.

I am a geek. And I’m very proud of it. Want to know everything there is to know about a Bohemian ear-spoon?

Fun with facial hair

I shaved off my beard tonight.  Vicky idly wondered what my chin looked like now, as she hadn’t seen it for over ten years, so off it came.  The beard, that is.  Not the chin.  Here’s her reaction.  Katherine looked at me gravely and said, “Your beard is gone.  Did it run away?”  Then she told me to get a new one at the store.

Here’s the result…….

And this is what I really look like.

Funny how one can get attached to a particular personal feature.  I grew the thing first off on a hiking trip down on the Southern Shore.  We were trying to get to Cape Race, but we got fogged out.  Prolly that’s why there’s a lighthouse there……. Anyway, the other two guys on the trip had beards and I decided to try one on for size.

It came in a nice red colour and it fit so nice, I decided to keep it.  I’ve always rather liked having such a distinctive facial feature.  It’s memorable: “Oh, you’re the guy with the red beard.  Right, now I remember you!”  It makes me easy to pick out of a crowd, “Don’t worry about finding me at the airport; I’ll find you.”

Plus, when I retire from being a rich and famous lawyer (yeah, right), I plan on growing it out until I can braid it and tuck it into my belt.  I’ve always harboured a secret desire to look like a dwarven blacksmith.

 A guy can dream, can’t he?

The general consensus is that I’ll start to grow it back.  Tomorrow.

It’ll be nice to be me again.

The Things They Say

Katherine, being happily ensconced in the terrible threes, gets time-outs in her room if she’s been rude, screaming, etc.  She basically stays in there until she says she’s sorry or is otherwise genuinely contrite.

Turns out she’s self-correcting, too.

I made the mistake of offering unsolicited help with a puzzle that was causing her a little difficulty and she jumped up, glared at me and stormed off to her room, saying “I’m very frustrated and I’m going in my room and I’m not coming out until I say I’m sorry!”  She even slammed the door.
She hadn’t done anything to warrant exile, so I cracked her door, only to be met with a ferocious scowl.  “Daddy, go ‘way!  I’m not sorry yet!”

Five minutes later, she came out and calmly finished the puzzle.

Weird kid.

Getting over myself

One of the clichés about the martial arts in general is that their training is supposed to help you overcome fear, build self-confidence, et cetera.  For a long time, I thought that such claims were largely over-inflated; at least, karate training wasn’t affecting me in that way.  I didn’t have any fears to get over……

 

Or so I thought.  Behold!  Large moment of self-realisation approaching!

 

Leaving kihon aside, as it’s the foundation of the whole system, I’d always been more attracted to kata than kumite.  When I sat down to work it out, I figured that (a) I liked the history behind the each of the kata, as some of them have existed in one form or another for centuries; (b) I liked the precision required for the execution and timing of each move in a sequence and (c) I liked working out possible applications for the various techniques.

 

My sparring, on the other hand, was tentative and uncertain.  Any opponent could easily overwhelm me and I didn’t have the faintest idea of what to do about it.  In shotokan karate, we’re trained to stop our blows just at the skin, with little impact.  The ideal is a full-power strike that focuses and stops just before it contacts the body.  You get to be pretty good at it after a while, but the occasional bruise happens….

 

So, anyway I decided that I didn’t like sparring.  Karate for me could be kihon and kata.  It seemed enough.

 

When Vicky and I moved back to Newfoundland and I started training again in earnest, I found something very odd.  I liked sparring.  I looked forward to the challenge and found myself working on tactics and techniques, striving to improve my timing, blocking and counter-striking.  And I found myself getting better.  I wasn’t intimidated anymore and my sparring was improving.

 

The reason was very simple.  I was fighting with my glasses off.  Now, I can see clearly about six inches past my nose without my glasses, so I was effectively fighting big white blurs with quickly moving appendages that might or might not be arms and legs.

 

My previous sparring had always been with glasses on and I realise now that I was tentative because I didn’t want to break them and was afraid to fight without them.  After all, how could I fight if I couldn’t see properly?

 

Turns out it was the best thing that ever happened to my karate (aside from the spinning back kick, but more about that later).  At first, my opponents were still all over me; I couldn’t see anything coming and they were flicking techniques off me however they pleased.  So I adopted a new strategy; I ignored what they were throwing, since I couldn’t see it anyway, and concentrated on landing my own strikes.  I wasn’t thinking about how not to get hit, but how to do some of my own hitting.

 

And gradually, I started to improve.  I became better able to discern what extremities were coming at me in what way, so my defences got better, which in turn improved my offensive techniques and combinations.  By far the biggest change, though, was that I wasn’t afraid to commit myself fully to a technique anymore.  That translated into better focus in kihon and kata as well, improving all aspects of my karate.

 

It was removing my glasses that gave me sufficient edge for me to earn my shodan.  I suppose it’s a clichéd thought, but I had to become blind in order to see more clearly.

Karate – Step One on the Journey from White to Black

Martial arts philosophising is a popular activity, to judge from the number of websites, books and videos out there touting their One True Path to Modern Warriordom.
 

I figured I might as well join the throng.  Training in martial arts, like any individual pursuit, affects different people in different ways, and if you’re still reading this, you might be silly enough to want to hear about my thoughts on the subject.
 

Still here?
 

Okay, let’s get the credentials out of the way first.  I’ve been training in shotokan karate since 1992 and earned my shodan, or first degree black belt, in August 2004.  For those of you who care about such things, my dojo is affiliated with the Japan Karate Association and the International Traditional Karate Federation, headed by Nishiyama Hidetaka.  The belt colours begin with white and progress through yellow, orange, green, blue, brown and black.
 

Many people think that a black belt indicates mastery of an art.  Not really.  Shodan just means that you’re a serious student of your art, able to perform the basic techniques in basic combinations.  There are ten degrees of black belt and the atmosphere gets pretty rarified the higher you go.  To my knowledge, there are two fifth-degree black belts in Newfoundland, and both of them have been training since at least the 1960s.  Maybe earlier.  There’s always somebody who knows more than you do. . . . .
 

Since I earned my shodan, I haven’t been attending training classes terribly regularly.  There are several reasons for this, but the most important one is that with a young daughter and long hours, there’s not the hell of a lot of free time floating around and I choose to spend most of it with Katherine and Vicky in various combinations and permutations.  Karate, however, has always been an important part of my life, regardless of the number of hours a week I spend training formally.
 

Notice that I said “formally.”  I still train:  in bits and pieces scattered throughout the day.  A few stances and punches here; a few kicks when there’s nobody watching there.  A bit of evasion and body movement practice somewhere else.  This can occasionally be embarrassing when the elevator door opens unexpectedly and you’re in caught in court clothes (robes and all) down in a deep stance waving your arms around.
 

So I suppose that begs the question: does someone who’s not training regularly have the right to comment on the art?  I think so. Some might say that if you’re not willing to make the sacrifices to train as hard as possible, you’re not a Real Martial Artist and therefore have no credibility.
 

Horsepoop.  Coherent thought does not derive from a strip of coloured cotton cloth wrapped round your waist.
 

Right then.  It’s hard to know where to start.  There are so many topics whirling around in my head that I might as well begin at the beginning – the physical training.
 

Karate training is divided into three basic elements – kihon, kata and kumite.  Kihon is basic training, practicing individual techniques against the air, a punching bag, or against a partner’s target.  Kata, or forms, are pre-arranged series of techniques conducted in specific sequences against a series of imaginary opponents.  Kumite is sparring, ranging from one-technique-and-pause to full-out, full-power matches.
 

From the beginning, what really caught my attention in training were the kata.  As you progress through the coloured belts, you learn one kata per belt level, increasing in difficulty.  The kata taught me balance and timing, as well as a control over my body that I had never before known, hitherto not being very athletic.
 

As I advanced through the coloured belts, I became aware that there were different interpretations possible for each move or combination of moves.  A block followed by a strike, slightly modified, became a throw and take-down.  Think of it another way and it becomes a joint-lock.  There may well be infinite variety locked inside an apparently rigid pattern.
 

The other tricky thing about the kata is that they actually decrease in difficulty the more advanced they are.  As a shodan, I’m expected to perform shodan-level kata with competence.  I should be considerably more proficient in beginning, basic kata, that I’ve been doing for over ten years.  More is therefore demanded of a black belt executing the white-belt kata; he should be able to bring more out of that kata than any other.
 

It’s not so much being able to execute basic techniques flawlessly as it is delving deeper into them and discovering what lies beneath the outer shell.
 

More to follow, as I find time……

Do I look like a fire hydrant to you?

It happened again.  I thought my curse was lifted.  I thought it was all behind me.
 

I was wrong.
 

A long time ago, back when Wikket was a pup, I went through a period of being irresistible to male dogs.  I know what you’re thinking.  Get your mind out of the gutter.
 

No, this was worse than having them try to impregnate my leg.  Having male dogs find me sexy I can handle.  You just tell them that “No means no” and they eventually get the point.
 

They liked to pee on me.  You can stop laughing any time now.
 

I’d be standing in the dog park, minding my own business, talking to other dog owners, ducking the occasional mis-thrown tennis ball, when without warning, dogs that otherwise interacted with me perfectly normally (wag, wag, “throw the ball, dammnit!”), would trot up to me, pause as if wanting a pat, and then lift their legs and let fly.
 

This happened every day for about six months!  Labs, border collies, Goldens, Yorkies, it made no difference.  They all loved me. 
 

The Great Dane was hands-down the worst, though.  I’ll spare you the details; your imaginations are probably working just fine.
 

People were universally Shocked and Appalled when their dogs whizzed by and I lost count of the number of times I heard “He’s never done that before!” or, if it was a repeat offender, “What, again?”
 

I became very good at twisting out of the way at the last second.
 

Then it stopped.  I was no longer interesting to the boys in that way.  We stayed friends though.
 

This evening, it happened again.  Moss, my boy, the dog rescued from Yarmouth, the effervescent coil of springs and good humour, this evening dropped his ball in my lap, stuck his head under my arm for a cuddle, got one, jumped down and PEED ON MY LEG!
 

Anybody know how to exorcise this sort of thing?

On the endurance of legends

We all have childhood heroes.  Sometimes, if we’re lucky, interest in these larger-than-life figures continues into adulthood, opening up whole new avenues of exploration.

Me, I’ve been a Robin Hood freak for as long as I can remember.  I grew up reading Howard Pyle’s version of the story and later on, fell in love with the 1938 Errol Flynn film as only a nine-year-old boy can.

Later on I took up archery.

So you can imagine my delight on discovering in university that people had written Robin Hood stories not only in the late 1800s, but also sang them in the Middle Ages, wrote them down shortly after that and then printed them once Herr Gutenberg changed forever the concept of a book.  Being a history major with a madcap passion for all things British I dived into the scholarly study of Robin Hood and started swimming around to see what I could find.  There were people trying to find who Robin Hood really was, exploring the development of the legend in its changing social context and drawing parallels with Robin Hood and various icons of ancient folklore.

I also discovered, quite by accident, the British 80s TV series Robin of Sherwood (link goes to the official fan club), a marvellous creation that ran for three seasons, incorporating elements of the classic legend and Celtic myth into a wonderful blend of good writing, great characters and accurate archery.  (Getting the archery details right is important in a Robin Hood story.  Trust me.)

There’s also a plethora of modern re-tellings of the stories.  Two of my favourite are The Outlaws of Sherwood by Robin (!) McKinley and Sherwood, by Parke Godwin.

There are several things that keep drawing me back to the bold outlaw, year after year.  There’s the basic childhood nostalgia: my memories of being a little boy, staying up WAY past my bedtime, finding out if Robin was finally going to wise up and not trust the Prioress of Kirklees Abbey.  Then there’s the stories themselves – the old Howard Pyle tales bespeak an idealistic world that’s a pleasure to visit.  It never rains in Merry England, the Sheriff never wins, Robin has the most hair-raising adventures and always comes out with a smile.

The academic works are fascinating for their different perspectives on the legend.

The films and TV shows have sword fights, archery contests and Errol Flynn.

 And splitting an arrow is a damned amazing thing to be able to do.  Even hitting the target is hard enough (Which tells you how far my talent for archery ran).

Beneath all the buckled swashes, though, there’s an undercurrent, a deeper thread.  The Robin Hood legend has survived and thrived for centuries.  Watching Errol Flynn, Richard Greene or Michael Praed outwit the Sheriff time and again reminds me that my great-grandcesters thrilled to the same tales.  They’ve changed over the years, to be sure, but Robin has always been an outlaw, he’s always lived in the greenwood and he’s always been cleverer than a fox.  There’s something fundamental about these stories and this character that goes to the very heart of what we find appealing, entertaining and fulfilling.

I made a decision a long time ago to keep at least a quarter of my brain at about 12 years old.  Keeps me sane.  Central to that task is a spreading oak tree, deep in the greenwood, safe from the Sheriff’s foresters, where seven-score yeomen cheerfully shoot their clothyard shafts, engage in quarterstaff bouts and rob the rich and give to the poor.  I visit often, and they’re always glad to see me.

East Coast Trails

This is the first pcture of many I’ll be posting here of the ECT

Starting off on an odd foot

Okay, now what? It’s an interesting thing, having a blog. One’s never really sure what subject to pick first to write about……Should it be any of the things I mention in the header for this thing? I know! Imaginary careers!

If I could have been anything, what would I have been? Let’s see. I’ve always wanted to be a jewel thief. But then again, who hasn’t? You get to play with cool technology, you’re in fantastic physical condition, with the agility of a mouse and the courage of a wolverine; you get to live extremely well and the cops never catch you because you’re too clever.

Or, I could have been a ninja. Ninja are rather like ABBA; no one wants to admit to liking them, but everyone secretly wants to be one.

I had the privilege of actually meeting a real live ninja once. He wasn’t wearing his uniform at the time, which was probably a good thing, seeing as how he was a cab-driver taking me to the Fredericton airport.

Yes, there’s ninja in Fredericton.

He was about 6’2” and looked to be solid muscle from head to foot. He regaled me with stories of his sensei, an old Japanese ninja master who taught him how to sit blindfolded in a field, listen to the sound of a snake crawling by, snap his hand out and catch the reptile in mid-slither. More impressive, however, was the story of the cow.

One day, my cab-driver was working in a cow pasture, minding his own business, when a hefty heifer, with intent and malice aforethought, shoved him against an iron fence and proceeded to try and crush the life out of him. Cows are bigger than you think.

Calling upon his knowledge and training in the centuries-old ninja arts, my cab-driver set himself and lashed out a tremendous blow, striking the obstreperous bovine dead square in the forehead.

The cow apparently stepped away from the fence and the object of her ire, crossed her eyes and sank to her knees. It was some time before she regained her feet.

I’ve heard of cowpunchers, but really!

What else could I have been? Hard to say. As this is an introductory post, I s’pose I’m entitled to wander wherever I like across the vast open space inside my head and write about whatever I happen across. Well, that is one of the themes of this blog; looking for things. I wonder what I’ll find next?