One snowy evening in late December, in the middle of the night, a thief broke into a home inhabited by a solitary old man. The thief came in through the front window very quietly and was shocked to see the old man sitting right there in the middle of the floor.
The thief, unsure of what to do, remained still.
After a moment, the old man spoke up: “I know what you have come seeking. You will find all that I possess of any value right here in this room. You are free to take what you need.”
The thief began throwing everything he could into a large sack. When he got to a small stack of wrapped gifts, the old man said to him, “Please do not take those, for they have been purchased for the local homeless children and are not mine to give. Take anything else you desire, but leave those things.”
The thief took everything but the presents and turned to leave. Just as he was climbing back out the window with his loot, the old man said to him, “You should always thank a person who gives you a gift.”
“Thank you,” said the thief and quickly vanished.
The following morning, the old man was called down to the police station to identify a burglar who had been captured in the night. The police explained that they had picked up a man with a sack full of what appeared to be stolen goods and traced his path through the snow back to the old man’s front window. All they needed was for the old man to confirm that the items were his and they could put the thief behind bars.
The old man recognized their captor as the visitor from the previous evening. He said to the policemen, “It is true that this man was in my home last night. But the items in his sack were given to him freely and he thanked me for them. As far as I’m concerned, he is not a thief.”
Upon being released from custody, the former thief returned all the old man’s property and dedicated the rest of his life to helping others.
NOTE: This has been my holiday retelling of an ancient Zen parable known as “Sichiri Kojun and the Thief” aka “The Thief Who Became a Disciple”.
Panda was playing with the new kitten the other morning and in his attempt to capture the ever-elusive feather-on-a-string, Diblet went for the 360° airborne grab... with humorous results.
I don't much like what VOX's video compression does to the picture quality, but you can still see the action.
That’s right: more video of DG and Diblet so dripping with candy-coated cuteness you might just feel like one big toothache afterward. But in a good way.
Go on and hit play! You have time; it’s only a minute-and-a-half long.
Here in Seattle, it’s known as Soak ‘Em* and back in 1979, when I was in the 7th grade, it was more brutal than any other game our emotionally damaged gym teacher could select from his vast trunk of torturous and humiliating activities. Hands down, Soak ‘Em was more painful than touch football, more dangerous than archery, more tiring than soccer, and mortifying beyond even the most ridiculous of square dance movements. Early on, that simple game was probably the single most constant reminder that starting school a year early only benefited me intellectually; from a physical and emotional standpoint, I was completely out of my league – pretty much a Dodgeball practice dummy with a high-school reading level.
Soak ‘Em was never offered up merely as a suggestion; subjecting my head, neck and groin to forty minutes of constant bombardment (BOMBARDMENT!) was absolutely required because middle school P.E. instructors are all vampiric imps that feed of the negative energies emitted by tormented schoolchildren.
But just as a Buddhist monk is thankful to his poverty for reminding him of the true purpose of life, so must I be grateful for having had the opportunity to learn of life’s cruelly neutral nature at such a young age through strictly imposed violent sports. Indeed, the hardships brought about on the Dodgeball court are, to a diminutive twelve-year-old, every bit as significant as the trials of monastic Buddhist life, if nowhere near as admirably recognized.
Unlike so many other experiences that similarly offered no choice in the matter – circumcision and inoculations are some colorful examples – the subjugation of Soak ‘Em was something I refused to just resign myself to. There really wasn’t much I could take away from being stabbed in the arm with a hollow needle, but numerous were the life lessons I took away from that form of legalized child abuse known as Jr. High Dodgeball.
Endurance
Obviously, the game was all about endurance. Players had to withstand perpetual salvos of red, rubber artillery without the convenience of bunkers and foxholes, so we found ourselves doing a lot of running. A lot of running. My legs being shorter than everyone else’s, I did the most running.
Now, there were a small handful of rules, one of which outlawed throwing “sidearm” and another that limited shots to below the shoulders; no head shots, in other words. The latter rule was not very well thought-out, however, or it might have been amended to include no shots below the knees because the lumpy mouth-breathers, already pissed off about the “no sidearm” rule, intentionally turned their aim to the opponent’s feet.
Here’s the math: Running Full Speed + Dodgeball to the Feet = Wicked Painful Gym-Floor Face-Plant.
I’m here to tell you: few things build one’s endurance like ducking and weaving until completely winded before being violently slammed to the ground. After a while, I started to realize that the hardwood hurt less and less; the rubber slowly but surely lost its sting.
Confidence
For the longest time, I had been content to hang in the back, dodging and ducking; it passed the time and kept the injuries to a minimum. But my strategy changed dramatically with the realization that I could withstand a solid blow to the torso from both ball and gym floor alike. It occurred to me that if I was skilled enough with my hands, I could use this new found invulnerability to completely turn the game around. All I had to do was master catching the ball. If I could train my fingers to be sticky, I could own this fucking game.
Just like that, in a single epiphany, my confidence shot up through the roof. I moved forward from the back of the court, implicitly challenging the largest of the lummoxes to turn their bullying gaze upon me. At first, I was insignificant. In spite of my new found bravado – perhaps even because of the sheer absurdity of it – the sweaty troglodytes saw me as less than a threat and I was mostly ignored…
…until I finally made a catch and hurled the ball at the ankles of the largest goon present with accuracy that can only be described as providential. The kid went down like a tranqued silverback and the resultant thud seemed to bewilder the opposing team long enough for my teammates to seal victory. I had personally eliminated two of them inside four seconds and even though I ended up being knocked out of the game before it was over, I knew I’d reached a turning point and it felt great.
Strength
With the endurance to stay in the game and the confidence to get aggressive, I was finally in a prime position to go about giving the big guys a taste of their own medicine. Unencumbered by self doubt and fear of bruises, I found that the entire dynamic of the game had changed completely. Their girth only made them easier to hit while, conversely, my smaller stature had suddenly become a major asset. They weren’t as quick as I was which meant that the balls near the center line were no longer solely their easy pickings. Dropping that first kid had shown me that pain is universal, so I knew all that was left was to match their throwing velocity. A cross-hatched welt on the lower back was the precise opposite of fun, regardless of the size of the recipient.
I began concentrating, really focusing, on winging that ball as hard as I possibly could. The temptation to slip into sidearm was great, but the desire to remain in the game was greater. I hadn't the physical strength of my adversaries, but spurred on by their winces and angry barks, I found that with each throw, my technique got better and better. And better technique meant harder throws, my size notwithstanding. Before long, I was a force to be reckoned with.
Oh sure, my adversaries had plenty of chances to serve up revenge, but even as I fought to keep from having my face shoved into a urinal or my entire head wrapped in medical tape, I knew there’d come a day when we’d play Soak ‘Em again. That triumphant knowledge was all I needed to survive Jr. High School.
From there, it was just a matter of seeing life as one big Dodgeball game.
*The name has nothing to do with fluids of any kind and I’ll use it interchangeably with Dodgeball in this post.
Remember the cute little kitten called Diblet I wrote about earlier this month? Well, we’ve decided to keep him!
Seriously, how do you give up a cat that has built up this level of rapport with your German Shepherds?
Yeah, he stays.
In case you were wondering, this does seem to be one of the things his Uncle DG has been teaching him.
The Deej is an uncle!
We recently adopted the baby boy of one of DG’s relatives. We call the little fuzzball “Diblet”, which is really just a placeholder name until we find him a home or decide just to keep him. He’s almost the spitting image of his Uncle Deej, except that he has this terribly cute pink nose. That's him at left.
It has been a riot watching DG interact with the little kitteh. Based on the way he acts around Diblet, I honestly think the Deej remembers what it was like to be that small. He wants to play with him, but he’s incredibly concerned over how rough he can be and the results are just hysterical. Every once in a while, the kitten will get an extra burst of energy and suddenly dart under DG, to which DG responds by leaping about three feet straight up in the air. It just kills me.
Diblet is small enough that he has been given his own private digs back in Karin’s office. He’s only allowed out with the rest of the cats while there is someone there to watch him. When DG is lonely, he’ll often go back to the end of the hall and just sit and stare at the door to the office, as if trying to will the door open and let his little nephew out to play.
Showing Him the Ropes
The fact that DG and Diblet are so similarly marked is especially cute when it becomes evident that DG is actually training the kitten to be just like him. The Deej seems to be taking direct responsibility in teaching his nephew everything there is to know about expertly completing chaoses. He has been teaching Diblet how to stalk other cats and showing him that attitude counts for far more than size. He’s probably just waiting for the kitten to get a little bigger before teaching him stuff like pushing the cat food dish off the shelf* and onto the floor when its empty.
I was worried when we took in the kitten that the other cats would be inclined to attack the tiny newcomer. It really is inspiring to see DG take to him so well.
*Cat food dishes must be inaccessible to the dogs, so the cats get to eat on special shelves.
Oh, wait, that’s not quite right. There’s a small typo. It should read, “You’re All Dinners in the Eyes of Great Cthulhu.” Sorry about that.
OK, well anyway, it happened. DG and I drew the winning numbers for the 1st Annual Cthulhu is my Copilot Anniversary Contest. We shot the drawing in a single take, completely improv, and I left it unedited so you all could see that 1) things were on the up and up and 2) I am woefully ill-suited for being in front of the camera. The latter serves to reinforce the former because I’m here to tell you that if I could have, I’d have re-shot the whole thing.
Yup, I would have done many things differently, alrighty. For example, I could have slowed down a bit and stopped being so damn nervous. What the hell was that about?
I could've tried to show a little excitement, too, for crying out loud! As it is, you’d think I was drawing the names of people who were going to be caned or hung or something.
*sigh*
I am such a complete dork when I’m trying not to be a dork.
So, without further pitifully obvious stalling...
Thanks to everyone who entered and congratulations to all the winners!
Winners can either PM me with their mailing address or shoot me an e-mail at kirkstarrPANTS@gmail.com. Be sure to remove the PANTS or I won’t get the e-mail. (Hey, we all have to hide from the SpamBots. I do it in a very juvenile way. This is me we’re talking about.)
Also, please be sure to specify your t-shirt size, if appropriate. And if you won a t-shirt and really just wanted a mug, just let me know and we’ll work something out that puts a big ol’ smile on your face.
I meant what I said in the video, too. I really wish I could send a shirt or a mug to everyone who entered. As a consolation, I’d be happy to send a sticker to anyone who entered the contest and wants one. The stickers just arrived yesterday and they look fabulous!
If you entered and didn’t win, just let me know you want a sticker and I’ll send one out to you.
OK, I’m going back to bed now...
Contest entry cutoff was last night at midnight, my time. Forty-one numbered tickets with the CimC logo have been created and an adequate vessel has been selected.
DG and I will be drawing numbers this evening when the stars are right and I’ll be posting the winners in the way of a nifty video sometime tomorrow.
It’s completely alright if you’re hysterical with excitement. Try to hold on for a few more hours.
Also, this gives me very confusing feelings inside. On the one hand, it looks like it might not be total crap. On the other hand, Tori Spelling. Ugh.
I just want to take a sec to thank the kind souls who liked my humble t-shirt designs enough to toss down a portion of their hard-earned money. The recent upswing in sales of the Zombies Were People, Too shirt has been a surprise that can be most accurately described as “totally fucking sweet”.
Zazzle doesn’t give me any info on the people who buy stuff, so I felt I needed to post a thank you here at VOX in case it was people in my ‘hood showing the love.
Thanks bunches, peeps!
Update: DG says I should spend some of the money on another huge sack of nip for him and Edgar. I swear, that cat is a total stoner.
Have you entered the Cthulhu is my Copilot 1st Annual Anniversary Contest yet? There are currently 40 people out there who can answer that question affirmatively. A 1-in-40 chance of winning first prize ain’t too shabby, folks. Believe it or not, that’s about the same odds as a guy my age getting prostate cancer. And the way I eat, you stand a damn good chance of winning a t-shirt and some stickers!
Hey, don’t nit-pick my chain of logic. I’m just trying to get more people to enter the stupid contest.
Oh, and if you’ve entered and not yet received a number, let me know. I think I’ve gotten back to everyone, but then again I am an imperfect being. One might even say perfectly imperfect.
Karin, Amanda and I are going into Seattle tonight to see the Arctic Monkeys. It’ll be the second time seeing them for Karin and me. Panda’s beside herself with excitement and we’ve still got five hours before we leave. Add to that the fact that FedEx just delivered her brand new Olympus E-500 digital SLR and you end up with a level of youthful exuberance only enjoyed vicariously at my age. It’s quite a sight. I just love it when she’s so happy she squeaks.
Panda won't be taking the new camera to the show, but I'll have my trusty cell phone and will sincerely try to get better photos than last time. And, since The Paramount is a cleaner, more sophisticated venue than the crumbling boozer known as The Showbox, I hope to avoid confrontations with piss-drunk moshers. Always a plus.
OK, well, time to go crank up the newest Arctic Monkeys album, take care of some domestic duties, and get myself properly psyched for a couple hours of bone-shaking Sheffield punk rock.
Is it wrong that I'm actually thinking about cranking up some Muse instead?
