Changing Filters: MGS and Me

Not too long ago, my Xbox 360 started dying. As this is an indispensable item on the Songy household (sadly, more for my toddler's Netflix than my own video game habit, these days), I immediately started considering replacements. It seemed pointless to get another 360... the system is on its way out the door, and the only thing I still care about that is exclusively for the 360 is the next Halo game. With that in mind, I purchased a PS3.

Now, in the heydays of console gaming, systems usually had exclusive games that you longed for if you did not own said system. Not so in this modern, hyper-commercial world. Just about every "hit" game gets distributed broadly across the platforms. One of the few exceptions to that was the Metal Gear Solid series, which has stayed on the Playstation platform exclusively (with a couple small exceptions). I picked up 4 (the only original offering for the PS3) and just finished it last night.

Here are my thoughts.

Changing Filters: MGS and Me 

I've been playing these games since their origin on the Nintendo. I recall the original ones as being very difficult, and I don't believe I gave them an inordinate amount of attention. (It also bears mentioning that at the tender age of 7, Italian Plumbers were way more interesting to me that shadowy assassins.)

Like most people, where the Metal Gear series really grabbed hold of me was in Metal Gear Solid. I was fourteen or fifteen when it came out. I can say it is a great game, but that lacks specificity. The truth is a little more complicated.

From a technical standpoint, it is great because it really maximized the capabilities of the first Playstation. I don't think I'd ever seen a game as good-looking, immersive, or geographically "big". The use of CDs instead of clunkier, less efficient cartridges enabled sophisticated voice-acting and gave the game an extremely cinematic feel. The more complicated Playstation controller (which quadrupled the usable buttons from its older Nintendo cousin) allowed for a much wider range of behaviors for the player-character, allowing for a rich experience. There was definitely a lot of ways to accomplish the same objectives, and this was something fairly new to video games at the time. The score was great, and the artwork was extremely well-integrated and stylistically "fit" the story's themes.

It ran deeper than that for me, though. Snake was the first real "anti-hero" I had ever been exposed to, and like most young teenage boys, I ate it up. I admired his aloof strength, his facility for violence, and his unspoken devotion to the warrior's ideals. With his deep gravelly voice and dark demeanor, Snake embodied everything that a callow, teenage boy isn't.

The story for the game is good. It has some soul to it, and some human emotion, but it isn't overly convoluted. The good guy stays the good guy. The bad guy stays bad. The hero saves the world and gets the girl. Huzzah. It is exactly that palatable mix you want in a good action movie. Just a spicy side of thoughtfulness with your main dish of savory action.

Enter Metal Gear 2.

At first, I absolutely despised it. For one, my much adored Snake was put aside for the boyish, untried, and considerably feminine Raiden. Even though I was eighteen when this installment came out, I was very much a child and still very much threatened that Hideo Kojima would have the nerve to take my paragon of manhood (or so I thought at the time) out of the "spotlight".

And then there's the plot. While all the good things about the gameplay remained (and some new ones were born), the plot was convoluted to the point where it was fairly incomprehensible at the end. I remember thinking at the time, "Man, this started so good and ended so shitty! How would they let him drop the ball like this at the end of the game?"

Thus began a debate that has raged in my mind to this day. 

I was in my second year of an English degree at that time and had done considerably coursework concerning creative writing. At that stage in my education, I was very much immersing myself in the fundamentals of story-building, and I was obsessed with a clean, goal-oriented narrative. This is all well and good, but it certainly isn't the only way to "skin a cat". Read Franz Kafka and you'll figure that one out real quick. Not all great narratives are clean and easily digested.

In this modern information age, where my "video game generation" has started to inherit the earth, there has been some serious scholarship regarding my beloved video games. Particularly, there has been a lot of examination of MGS 2 as the first "post-modern" video game.

Gamasutra's article about it, here: http://www.gamasutra.com/view/news/119999/Analysis_What_Metal_Gear_Solid_2_Teaches_Us_About_The_Information_Age.php

I'd never considered it this way previous to now. The game really is a very interesting dialogue in how society evolves and, to an extent, imprisons itself in the information age. The end revelation, that Raiden is ultimately a pawn in a much bigger scheme, doesn't seem as disappointing as it used to. As I no longer need video games to affirm a youthful, misguided ideal of manhood, I'm able to "take a step back" and see what Kojima was trying to accomplish from an artistic standpoint.

While he does make some forays into the outright ridiculous, I'll concede that there may have been some very bold artistic endeavors going on in that second game. Even if it doesn't quite hit all the marks it is aiming at, I'll give the man praise for attempting something new and different in the forum of such a "big money" popular video game.

The third game I won't spend much time on, because as a practical matter, I think it was a throw-back to the first game. Simpler plot, more of an action focus, and those same uber-mensch ideals that I loved so much in my teens and early twenties.

This brings me to my most recent experience, Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots.

The gameplay is excellent. The parts where you are behind the wheel are as fun and challenging as ever. The sneaking is exhilarating, and if anything, Snake has more options than ever in terms of attaining his goals. It is the other stuff that is an issue. (One astute Amazon.com reviewer suggested, "Just skip all the cut-scenes and you've got a great game.")

The cut scenes are looooooooong. I mean, "go make yourself a sandwich" long. Perhaps "go write the Great American Novel" long. My impression was that they were disjointed and frantic... almost like the manic scribblings of a drug-addict while he is in the grips of an opiate-induced euphoria. He has a narrative, and it makes sense to him, but that is about it. Ideas that seem brilliant and meaningful in his own mind come out as slop. You get a vague sense of what he is trying to communicate, and if it is something worthwhile, you feel a twinge of sadness that he isn't able to properly convey his vision. For some reason, the whole experience just makes me think of a drug addict trying to tell a story. Whether this is true for Hideo Kojima, or whether he is just drunk on his own success, I don't know for certain.

The cut scenes just seem like storytelling where the teller assumes that his audience has truckloads of patience and good grace when it doesn't. I get the sense in my mind that Kojima and his staff envisioned us all spell-bound with his forty-minute plus cut scenes detailing the plot, which is convoluted to the point of meaninglessness.

I get some of the overarching themes (purely commercial society is bad, material living without any deeper morals leads to a meaningless existence ultimately controlled by others), but they are loss in a haze of chauvinistic exhibitionism and grade-school humor. It is as if the game doesn't quite know if it is a commentary on human existence or a love letter to adolescent boys. I think it tries to be both and fails.

Thus is my mental debate. Is there genius behind all the madness? Is there some deeper meaning, as I suspect there was with the second game? Perhaps. But if so, I think it is lost on myself and the vast majority of people that have played it. Maybe Kojima is a genius and there's something here that I'm missing.

But maybe he just screwed the pooch on this one.

Now, lest you accuse me of being a overly serious grouse, let me assure you - I gave Hideo Kojima and company the benefit of the doubt. I played the game tip to tail, and took my time to stop and smell the roses. I approached it with a light heart and low expectations. I no longer need video games as some type of adolescent power fantasy, so I don't think I'm wearing the same blinders I was when I critiqued these games as a teenager.

Regardless, I think it still came up lacking. Part of any good storytelling (linear or not) is to have a clear vision of what you are trying to accomplish (which needs to be somewhat narrow, by necessity), and then executing it to the best of your ability.

And I just don't see that in the fourth game.

Ah well. The fact that an artist creates a brilliant work is a rare thing. Two is a certifiable miracle. It really is unfair to expect more. While it would be nice of Kojima was a proverbial "golden goose" of games and only laid "golden eggs", that is not how human art works. You try, you fail, and you fall victim to the foibles of humanity. In the end, I think you've just got to appreciate the good in anything that is produced. No one has a right to expect perfection out of every human endeavor, and if you feel like you do... you are in for a disappointing life.

Reading / Watching / Listening - July 2012

Too tired to write anything earth-shaking. In fact, too tired to write anything even mildly amusing. So today, I pinch hit.

What I'm reading:

Buddhism Plain and Simple by Steve Hagen

Man, this is it. I've followed the Buddha-dharma for some thirteen years now, and that has included extensive study and reading. I don't know that I've ever encountered another book that presents it all, removed from most of the cultural bells and whistles, so simply. I've given away and worn out more copies of this book than I can remember.

If you're into Buddhism, or just want a clear head, this is one of the greats.

What I'm watching:

Ronin directed by John Frankenheimer

This is one of those really good movies that no one knows about. When it comes to spy movies, I think Frankenheimer was one of the best. This film has got really nice cinematography, a well-unraveled plot, and of course, De Niro. While it isn't the best role he has ever played, I think he does a great job injecting a lot of depth and texture into material that is fairly stark. As opposed to the tidal-wave of testosterone rolling off of most of the protagonists in modern action cinema, De Niro's portrayal here has this deep sense of practicality that you just can't help but appreciate.

Clue directed by Jonathan Lynn

I cannot tell you how much I love this movie. It has been one of my all-time favorites since I saw it as a kid. I love the campy setting and very play-like dialogue. It has the feel of a well-rehearsed live production, and the chemistry between the actors is phenomenal. I think Wadsworth is arguably Tim Curry's best role, but it is a stiff competition, because Madeline Kahn, Michael Keenan, Eileen Brennan, and Chris Lloyd all steal the freaking show. If nothing else, you should watch this movie just so you can memorize the quotes and use them at opportune times.

What I'm listening to: 


The Idler Wheel is Wiser... by Fiona Apple

I love me some Fiona Apple. She's just so nuts, and so totally unashamed about it. Her lyrical stylings are a bizarre mix of emotional vulnerability and the lilting progressions of ee cummings at his avant-garde best. It has been a delight to see her sound grow from something more mainstream (Tidal) into the realms of acid jazz, soul, and folk (this). This album is definitely some exploration on her part, but I think it works well. As weird and off-key as it gets, it always has that dark honesty that defines her work. That said, I'm not sure how this would strike someone that hadn't already been listening to her for a decade, so listener beware on that one.

Act II - The Father of Death by The Protomen

If you grew up in the eighties and love video games, you are pretty much doomed on this one. These guys have taken the basic plot of the Mega Man games for the NES and composed two acts (so far) of a rock opera. When I first discovered it, I thought it was going to be a kind of fun, tongue-in-cheek sort of thing, but imagine my surprise when I actually discovered a lot of soul in both acts. The material is well-composed, and the plot (you'll have to look up the "bridging" bits of action on the net, unless you happen to see it live) is actually thought-provoking. Act I is harsh, fun, yowling, off-key punk rock punctuated by eight-bit chiptunes.

The sounds in Act II are a bizarre and delightful mix, which is much more polished. All of the Dr. Light pieces are done in the tone of Johnny Cash in his middle period. This is directly juxtaposed the Joe numbers, which are driving synth pop that sounds like a hybrid between The Darkness, Cheap Trick, and Meat Loaf on their best respective days. And to complete the mix, Wily's number almost sounds like something from the Stray Cats. It is shamelessly melodramatic, and if you're prone to that 1980's musical excess (or just musicals, really), it will suck you in like a tornado.

Charm School

For most of my life, my associations with the term "charm" have been positive. Shocking at it may be to those that know me well, I was often described as a "charming" person when I was younger. I had always considered it close kin to "pleasant", "kind", and "genial". Call it a bit of egomania if you will, but because the term was pointed at me, I always considered it to be a positive thing. In fact, I went out of my way to be charming. It is a behavior that I studied and honed over time. It became one of the primary tools in my toolbox in terms of dealing with people.


I recently read a very interesting defensive tactics book by Rory Miller. His description of charm is an interesting one. While he describes it in the terms of a tool that predator uses to get close to a victim, he makes an interesting discussion of charm as a whole.


The short version of his theory: charm is not a natural behavior for human beings. It is a goal-oriented manipulation tactic. The goal need not be nefarious. People use charm to calm tense situations, fit into new social groups, and advance their careers. While these may seem different from the rapist trying to get close to a victim, I think Miller has right about the underlying mechanics being the same.


Charm is a subtle attempt at controlling another party.


This theory jives with my own life experience. I am not charming when I am taking out the garbage, doing the laundry, or buying groceries. I am not charming to people who do not have anything that I want. I don't really describe any of my close friends as charming, and I find that I do not (these days) employ any of my childhood tactics on them to "win them over". With those that I feel safe around, I simply do not exhibit charming behaviors.


(Here's a fun exercise: ask my wife if I am charming. Report back here with the response.)


While charm does work to an extent, I think somewhere in our lizard brains, humans recognize these attempts for what they are and either reject them or dole out a heavy dose of distrust to the would-be charmer. While I think some people are more susceptible to charm than others, I think this natural resistance is something common to humanity.


My reliance on this behavior has waned over the years. I understand why I did it as a child. I had a lot of uncertainty and anxiety in my home life, and I did not have any other tools at my disposal (wasn't faster, stronger, bigger, smarter, or better funded), so I used charm. It became a compulsive habit, a manifestation of my inherent insecurity. I controlled with charm for not reason other than that control made me feel safer. I did it unconsciously.


The first place I encountered where my charm hit a brick wall was martial arts. My teacher, and to a greater extent, his teacher, recognized the behavior for what it was immediately. Both made damn sure not to let it work on them even a little bit, openly pointing out my subconscious attempts to control situations. I ended up looking like an ass quite often. (We tend to adhere to our childhood safety strategies well beyond the time when they stop working.) Time passed, though, and instead of charm, I tried honesty, sincerity, commitment, and willingness to be vulnerable. Those worked a lot better, and infected the rest of my life. (But that is another book, in and of itself.)


In the earlier days of my law practice, I leaned on the charm tactic heavily in front of juries. After prosecutor gave a relatively dry and exhaustive voir dire to a jury pool, I'd get up and make them laugh. I'd joke about the free coffee, the boring nature of the process, and the bizarre little world the potential jurors had been thrust into. I used to attribute some of my victories to that charm, but in light of the revelations above, I've changed my mind.


Like my teachers in law, I've come to the conclusion that evidence wins cases, plain and simple. (I once had a juror tell me, after finding my client guilty, "You made a fine speech, son, but that guy was as guilty as the day was long. Better luck next time.") I've seen a mediocre attorney easily win a case against a magnificent one because of the evidence. If a lawyer's personality has something to do with an outcome, it is a very, very small percentage of that outcome.


Interestingly, a lot of professional jury analysts and behavioral scientists agree. I have recently started studying the scientific research that has been conducted regarding the jury system and why results happen the way they do. While I do not agree with all of it, these conclusions seem to keep repeating themselves in the literature:


1. There is a powerful negative stereotype about two types of lawyers - criminal defense lawyers and plaintiff's lawyers in injury cases. Criminal defense lawyers are hired guns that will get any hardened criminal off for a buck, and plaintiff's lawyers are parasites that grow rich the suffering of others. (Having been both, plaintiff and defense, I'll tell you that this is horseshit, and you'll get an earful from me if you suggest it around me. Regardless, this is the public perception, whether I like it or not.)


2. The hours or days you have for jury selection will not be enough to counteract this stereotype, no matter how persuasive you are.


3. Utilization of charm and other overt manipulation tactics in picking juries just confirms the negative stereotypes, and harms the attorney's credibility from the outset.


I've tried to tailor my approach to one that is more of a "just the facts" approach. I think this is helpful, because it builds credibility and, more importantly, allows the jurors to draw their own conclusions based on the evidence. I think this is a much more powerful and engaging approach. It goes back to what I was taught in law school: "Never tell, always show."


So, that is why I thought Miller's description was so interesting. It helped me articulate a revolution that has been going on in my own life, as well as my professional practice. I encourage you to look at your daily behaviors, and see if you utilize charm, or one of its cousins, as a habit.


And I'd further encourage you to see what happens if you stop. You might be surprised.

Of Aardvarks and Zebras - Politics and Me

I very rarely engage in political debate. Some have pointed out that this habit is very odd, for a lawyer. After all, don't lawyers like arguing? Especially about matters legal?

I have thought about that for a while, and this is my answer.

I do not judge people based off their words. Fact is, words are just too easy. Too easy to say, repeat, and eventually start believing. A man can build entire illusory palaces with his words, worlds that become real over time. So real, in fact, that he will start attacking anyone who threatens his ephemeral creation. It gets too easy to get embroiled in conflicts over things which ultimately are not real.

My first question, when considering any source of opinions, is "What has this person done? What do they really know, and what is just bullshit that they are guessing about?"

There is a certain authority that comes from taking action, and having real experience. I can talk about war, but my words are academic. They pale in comparison to those have gone through the visceral experience of life and death struggle in the service of one's country, witnessing the rending of flesh and the death of comrades. I can speak about war as an intellectual concept, but I do not know it.

And you bet your ass that when someone who actually knows war talks about it, I listen to his opinion and give it a hell of a lot of weight, because it ain't bullshit and speculation. The rest of us, despite how educated and respectful we might be, are only making guesses.

The guesses are not worthless. Some guesses have lead to revolutions in the way we live. But I give those guesses a certain weight. It is considerably less than observations based on direct experience.

This is why I avoid many political discussions.

In our political discourse, this country has developed a cottage industry of professional "opinion-havers", who say much but have rarely, if ever, actually had their "boots on the ground" in the areas they speak so passionately about.  I have a hard time having any meaningful dialogue with these people, or any of their devoted sycophants.

Strangely, it is often these people who are guessing the hardest that are the most vocal in their opinions. I am not a psychologist, but I suspect this is based off the insecurity that comes off of pure "guesswork". Look at it this way: if you've never seen a certain animal, and you think it is an aardvark, your conclusion is a pure construct of thought. The aardvark is a guess. If someone says it isn't an aardvark, their opinion is a real threat - it is an idea, just like yours. The two compete on equal footing. On the other hand, if I see a zebra with my own eyes, touch it with my hands, and know it's a zebra, you can call it an aardvark if you want to. That won't particularly threaten me. While I am willing to listen to your logic... I know I saw a fucking zebra. It isn't a mental construct. It ain't guesswork, either.

Knowledge and experience.

I'll share a particular illumination I experienced about immigration and this country. Like many Americans, I believed that coming here illegally was wrong and unfair to the citizens of this country. It was a nice, tidy, easy unilateral idea. Then, as an assistant public defender, I had the opportunity to really talk with and work with many people who had come here illegally. In my experience, the vast majority were decent, hard-working, and humble people. In fact, I found many of them to be more decent, hard-working, and humble than many natural-born Americans.

I had a good discussion with one man in particular, from Juarez, in Mexico. If you haven't been reading the papers, this is one of the most violent parts of the world, outside of war zones. The violence perpetrated by drug cartels is unbelievable. People are gruesomely and horrifically murdered. This man told me about his life there. He had a wife and three children. The picture he painted of his daily life was visceral and deeply unsettling. Nothing in his life was untouched by the shroud of violence and corruption that hung over that place. He explained that his options were to stay in that hellhole of misery and violence, at the mercy of corrupt government and drug cartels, or illegally come to the United States.

I imagined what it would be like if I was in his position. I imagined if my family was in such danger, and there was a safe place I could get to within a day's drive. It didn't take long to figure out what my decision would be if my wife and child were on the line: I'd do what he did, and I wouldn't lose a millisecond of sleep over it. Maybe this makes me ignoble, immoral or unpatriotic. I'm willing to live with those labels, but I suspect that there are a lot of folks out there that agree with me that the safety of their family trumps damn near everything.

How am I any better than that man? I won the freaking lottery. I was born to educated parents in a free country where people have rights and a good shot at prosperity. I didn't chose that. I just lucked into it. His situation was the reverse. From a moral standpoint, I just can't bring myself to look down on him. It is easy to talk about what he should or shouldn't have done when we, ourselves, have not been in that particular crucible.

I still agree that it isn't good for people to come here illegally, but that idea is seasoned with what I've learned from people that have really had to wrestle with the problem from a very human position. People who know that problem. Not just the talking heads.

Having said all this, I guess the reason I rarely discuss politics with people is that I have little to no desire to argue over imaginary aardvarks. I am willing to engage in political discussion, but it is only with people that A) are not trying to bludgeon me with a perceived threat to their imaginary aardvark and B) will appreciate a pure idea for what it is - an educated guess that always weighs less than actual zebra experience.

Portraits

Funny thing about children... they'll help you rediscover memories that you'd thought were long gone.

Saturday morning. 7:30 a.m. Bright sunlight streams through the windows and illuminates the toys strewn on our floor, and gives a golden hue to our battered, comfortable, mostly second-hand furniture. I am up because, despite a relatively sleepless night, my body simply will not remain asleep beyond 6:00 a.m. anymore. (I used to think Dad was crazy for getting up early on the weekends... I'm starting to realize he did not have a say in the matter.) I make cafe au lait for myself, and a much weaker version in a sippy cup for my son. My wife remains asleep, nested firmly in the spot that I recently vacated. 

We sit in silence and sip our respective beverages. His sober little morning face is an incredible reflection of his mother's. 

"Something is missing," I tell him. 

He continues drinking from his sippy, his huge brown eyes studying my face. 

"Something important." 

His silence continues. Like myself as a child, Jack's consumption of coffee is an all-or-nothing ritual, where he does not rest until the cup is drained to the last drop. 

"Donuts, Jack. We need to get some donuts for Mommy. And flowers. Why flowers? Not because it is a special occasion... it's just that when you live with a woman, periodically giving her flowers buys breathing room for those times when you royally screw up. Free tip, kid."

"Donuts!" 

"Indeed." 

I stand up to get him out of his pajamas, and then I stop. It hits me like a freight train. 

It is probably 1987. New Orleans. The weather is that same muggy warmth, with the same sunlight that seems to turn everything to gold. My father and I are on the road. We're in his immaculate Nissan Maxima, with its square lines and uniformly gray everything. We're on our way to Morning Call, which is the other restaurant in town that sells beignets, French donuts with powdered sugar on top. Dad and I are both wearing our pajamas and flip-flops.

This is very strange, because my father is a very proper man. Always with immaculately combed hair, clean shaven, pressed shirts and pants. Always appropriate. Composed. Controlled. Even in his own home, I could never say that the man relaxed. I only got to see little cracks of my father's humanity on rare occasions. 

This was one of them. Riding in that old car, sitting in his ragged pajamas, my father wasn't quite my father. Or, at least, not as I knew him. His hair was unruly and his chin was covered with dark stubble. Chuck Berry warbled "You Never Can Tell" on the radio, and we bellowed along. (I tried, at least. My knowledge of Berry's songs was limited at that time.) Dad dropped the hammer and we tore down the road, likely considerably faster than the speed limit.  Both of us laughed in delight. 

It was one of the few times I ever remember him doing so. This is one of my favorite memories of my father, because I got a little glimpse of who he was as a kid, before the world went to work on him. Rakish, impulsive, and a bit irresponsible, there was a certain delight in him that day. I'm not sure exactly why the walls came down, but I'm glad they did. 

I smile at my son and leave his pajamas on. I neither shower nor shave. My hair looks like I've mixed it up with an electric socket and a battered "Tron" tee-shirt adorns my chest. 

"C'mon, kiddo. We're keeping up a tradition."

"Donuts?"

"Yes. Still the donuts. And flowers for Mommy. And whatever the hell else we feel like." 

I load him in the car. Through the magic of smart phones and little cables, Chuck favors us with another rendition of his classic. I roll down the windows and tear down the causeway, with the ocean wind roaring in my face. We sing along to the radio and shamelessly procure our treasure from the store. For a bit, the rest of my life with all its cares and worries fades into non-existence. I am 100% present, and I am delighted. Jack smiles his mother's beautiful smile. 

When we get back home, he surprises Mommy with our treasures. 

Hopefully, one day, something will remind him of this, and he'll smile at this glimpse of me, just as I did of my own father. 

Book Review: Wayne of Gotham

I just finished reading Wayne of Gotham by Tracy Hickman, and I figured I would get my thoughts down while they were fresh.

Short version: fun read, interesting story, and thought-provoking without providing a full emotional or intellectual lobotomy. Worth a read, but you may want to wait until it is available in paperback or at the library... it isn't life-altering. Just good.

Long version:

I like it. I haven't seen anyone challenge Batman "canon" like this since the Frank Miller era (The Killing Joke, Batman Year One, the Dark Knight Returns). There was a time in my life when I would join in the squalls of outrage when anyone had the nerve to change the way the story was "supposed to be" for one of my comic book idols. As I've gotten older, I find that I actually respect anyone with the salt and creativity to turn a comfortable feature on its head. I don't get any stimulation out of the same thing over and over again.

Time has passed, and I've re-examined my comic book heroes, just as I have everything else in my life. Adulthood and parenthood have piled new layers of meaning to the heroes that I have been watching my whole life. Hickman's story brings a lot of those adult questions into the four-color comics of my youth.

As long as I can remember, Bruce Wayne's parents have been set-pieces. They are a necessary foundation for the more interesting story of Batman. Hickman's preliminary question is a simple one: Just who the hell are these people? Clearly they are the motivation behind the whole Batman story, but they are often just idealized shells of real human beings.

Or perhaps, more accurately, they are people who retain the giant stature that parents occupy in the minds of their young children. An interesting piece in the Batman puzzle is how early he loses them. I can tell you about the unsettling journey I took in my twenties, when I started seeing my parents as real, flawed human beings instead of the giants I perceived them to be in my youth. I remember that time in my life as a series of painful revelations, which made the world seem a lot less simple than it had previously been. I remember questioning who I was and where I came from.

In my late teens and early twenties, I was very idealistic and set out to pursue a life that would honor the heroes, both real and imagined, in my life. As I got into the actual process of doing so, I realized that it wasn't so simple. Not all the heroes were heroes. And I didn't always get to be the "good guy", and the person I opposed wasn't always the "bad guy". In fact, most of the people I dealt with were just... guys. Or girls. Gender irregardless, most people tended to exist somewhere in the middle of the moral spectrum, as did I. It made life a lot more difficult to understand and pursue. I had to come to a much deeper understanding of who I was, and why I did what I did.

I imagine what it would be like if that journey didn't happen until my fifties. I imagine what it might be like if I built my entire life, my entire world-view on an inaccurate illusion of people who did not really exist.

I don't have to imagine too hard, because Hickman pulls it off pretty damn well in the book. The psychological conflict is often portrayed in terms of symbols and images, instead of out-and-out narrative, but I think that works fairly well in the course of his work. Some might opine that there are too many dark and decaying buildings in Hickman's landscape, but remember that the landscape is ultimately just a reflection of the mindscape of the creature who is definitely Batman and, at times, Bruce Wayne.

The apex of the book resonates pretty strongly with me, and I think it goes something like this: you come from a complex, difficult, and to some extent (greater or lesser) fucked up system (read: your family), and like it or not, their baggage is yours. Ultimately, though, you choose who and what you are, and no one else is responsible for that choice. And at times, that might mean putting to rest pieces of your identity from childhood that no longer matter.

The Race

When I first began training in Japanese Budo, I was totally consumed with it. I could not stop thinking about it. When I wasn’t training with others, I did solo practice. When I did not do solo practice, I read books. When I could not read books about it, I would think about it or, if I could find a willing victim, talk about it. At twenty, my responsibilities were virtually non-existent, so I had all the time I wanted to pursue my passion.

Missing any training was agony. Any missed training somehow registered as “losing ground” in my brain, and it would color everything that I did. Irritation would hang around me like a cloud for days on end. Everyone around me felt it. I would be short and waspish with anyone that I had to deal with.  I was like an addict without his fix. It only dissipated when I got back onto the mat.

I clung to the practice desperately. In retrospect, it was a lot like a new relationship for me. When two people fall first fall in love, they cling to each other, unsure if the whole experience is just a temporary sensation that will quickly fade away. Touching is constant, as if to reassure themselves that what they have is real and lasting. There is a lot of insecurity there.

 In my mind, the practice was a race. I had to get as good as possible, as fast as possible. I constantly compared my performance with everyone else that I trained with. I kept a careful mental tally of whether or not I succeeded more than they did, on any given night, in a thousand different ways. I had to exceed my training partners, and if I didn’t, it bothered the hell out of me.

Fast forward a decade. My responsibilities have expanded quite a bit. I am the father of a little boy, someone’s husband, and a lawyer. My father is disabled, so I have to help Mom look after him. I have a great group of friends, and they need me too.  And of course, there’s always work to do and bills to pay. I don’t have as much spare time as I used to, and by the time I do get to the little spare time I do have, I’m often exhausted and unable to muster much in the way of mental focus.

In short, I don’t train nearly as much as I used to. For a while that bothered the hell out of me. I was “losing the race”.

But my relationship with my practice has changed. Like the one I share with my wife, it has grown and matured. It is not some ephemeral thing, likely to fade away at a moment’s notice. I have faith in it. The practice is part of who I am, just as much as being a husband, a father, or a lawyer. I don’t have to touch it every waking moment to make sure that it is there.

After a decade, I know that I’m in this training for life. It isn’t just something fun to do. It is the prism through which I view the world, and the tool I use to shape my interactions with the world.

That’s the “do” part of Budo. It is a “way” or “path” because it continues, and traverses all things and places in one’s life. And each place along the path presents its own unique difficulties and rewards. I’m sure there will be places on the journey where I will have more time to train again. At any given point in my training, my intention is the same: to do the practice to the absolute best of my ability, with everything I have to offer at that point and time.

I’m not racing with anyone anymore, because that is not the point. I do want to get as skillful as I can, do the practice as best I can, and when appropriate, transmit it to others as best I can, so that future generations can reap the same rewards and use the same tools I have. I do those things because they are worth doing, not because I am competing with anyone.

Maybe it comes to this: I’d still get on the mat every day if I could. But somewhere along the way, I realized that even when I’m not on the mat, I’m still on the mat. That’s the path.

Gear Reviews: Delica and NF: Recon

Greetings! I know I've been away for a while. Got a new job, doing a new type of law, and we're coming up on a massive trial, so my writing time has been... well, pretty much non-existent. Getting going again, and I figured I'd start out with an easy warm up: a couple gear reviews. Why? Because I love reviewing anything. This is well documented... by all my reviews.

North Face Recon Daypack

My wife will tell you that I have a sick obsession with bags. I've got messenger bags and briefcases of every stripe. The one type of bag in my arsenal that hasn't changed that much is the backpack. The reason is simple. About fifteen years ago, my father gave me an L.L. Bean Daypack that I've used religiously. I have subjected that poor bastard to every form of abuse known to man (the pack... not Dad). No matter what I do to it (and this includes one that got set on fire... don't ask), L.L. Bean would send me a brand-new one whenever I sent them the old one.

That is hard customer service to beat.

The design is old, though. That bag was a design that is about twenty years old, and it is more slanted toward school books than hiking. On the advice of a friend, I decided to make an investment and see what they've improved in daypacks in the past twenty years.

Short answer? A lot.

The color scheme on mine is different than the one in the picture, but the basic build is the same. The Recon has a semi-rigid internal frame, and I love that. The problem with most soft daypacks is that the weight distribution is terrible. No matter how you shoulder or strap it, it strains your lower back. Not so with this one. That alone would be enough to sell me on it. I've kept this, fully loaded, on my back for a couple hours while standing with no problems.

There's some other cool stuff, too. There's a port for a hydration system (if you're into that sort of thing) that doubles as a laptop sleeve. Two side pockets for one-liter bottles. Everything on it is water-resistant, with a couple pockets that are fully water proof. There are good built-in cinching straps and attachment points.One of my favorite features is how air-flow channels are built into the back and the straps, so that sweat will dry easy and wick away. That might not seem important to some, but believe me, if you've ever strapped a pack to your back and covered miles in Florida heat, some way to deal with your sweat is a godsend.

It's pricey (I'm sure a chunk of the money I paid went to the logo), but you do get what you pay for. It is well thought out, very functional, and it has good ergonomics. If you take care of your stuff (I'm getting better at it as I get older), I think this would last quite a long time. And for me? Backpacks are in that same family as shoes, phones, and whiskey: if you can afford quality, don't scrimp!

I'll let you know about how good the warranty is from NF if (read: when) I bust it.

Spyderco Delica

As you know, I'm really fascinated by how our species has refined cutting instruments. I've been pursuing free-hand sharpening as a pseudo-hobby for years. As a result, I'm really picky about any kind of cutting instrument.

Most of the tools I've enjoyed in this field are in more affordable steels. I tend to range between 440A and 8cr13Mov (which is the lowest level of "super steel", made in China). For years, I've heard people gush about how fantastic Japanese VG-10 steel is. I figured I would give it a shot, so I got a Delica.

I should mention before you hear my opinions that I really like Spyderco as a company. While I don't agree with all their design choices, I really admire their obsessive research/refinement process, and their willingness to do things that "aren't done" because they work better, tradition be damned.

Delica has gone through four evolutions over the years. The current model is the result of a lot of research, and a lot of dialogue with the end users. It fits the Spyderco mold I mentioned above: the thing looks like a freaking science experiment, and I did not like it until I held it. Once I did... dude. The ergonomics on this particular tool are amazing. The Spyderhole (I always thought that was a weird term) makes opening very easy, and the shape of the handle and thumb ramp make for the best feel in hand I've ever experienced in a pocket-knife. They've strengthened the blade's point and changed its geometry, so that it isn't likely to break in the even of an accidental drop.

Not to say dropping would be safe. The best feature of this knife is the VG-10 steel that is surrounded by all the puppies and rainbows everyone mentions. The steel is mirror polished and fully flat ground, so the knife slices exceptionally. The curvature helps with that, too (though it isn't quite as curved as I like). The best quality of this steel is its ridiculous edge retention. It came sharp enough to shave with, and after two months of hard use, I can still shave with it. So, if you do drop it... get the hell out of the way before you lose a toe.

The pocket clip rides a little high for my taste, especially if you set it so that it rides point-up in the pocket (you can do up or down, left or right - that's a nice feature, too). I like the matte-black clip, but any understatement you get with that dark clip is killed by the fact that the damn thing sticks almost an inch out of your pocket when clipped. But again, that goes to Spyderco's philosophy. It is easier to grab if it sticks out... and these Spyderco people worship at the temple of practical applications.

The lock is a mid-lock. Per Spyderco, this is the lightest, strongest lock they have. It's rated to about 100 lbs per blade-inch, so call it safe to 300 lbs of pressure on this blade. Short version: this thing ain't closing accidentally. Ever.

Like the Recon, the Delica 4 is a bit pricey. Mine ran me $50 on Amazon. You're paying for that expensive blade steel. So, the question is how much you care about sharpening, appearance, and ergonomics. You can get a decent blade that will handle most anything for $20-30 bucks. Delica is a good investment if you A) use a knife a lot and B) will be able to hold onto something and use it long enough to get your money's worth out of it. I'm not sure I'd own a $50 pocket knife if I was prone to losing them. Luckily, I'm not, so I think this investment will yield good results for years to come.

Home, Not Fortress

Before we depart from the comfortable confines of the home, let me bring up a few of the things that I think are important in terms of your home and safety.

Some people feel like the solution to home security is to build veritable fortress. I would strongly caution against any heavy fortifying of your home. While bars on windows and doors might seem like a good idea at the time, there is a huge practical problem with them.

This is a good problem to examine in terms of priorities. At the the end of the day, my stuff is just stuff. There is no item in my house that justifies risking my life in a confrontation with a criminal. The only thing that justifies that risk is a direct threat to myself or my family. If a criminal wants to come in and take my stuff, he is more than welcome. I will be gathering my family and retreating out the nearest window. We can call 911 from a public place down the street and stay away until law enforcement clears the house. Our safety trumps any and all property concerns. Period.

Due to this order of priorities, I want a home that is designed more in terms of mobility than fortification. I want to be able to abandon it at the drop of a hat and have multiple options available to get us all to safety. Bars and heavily fortified doors blow that strategy to hell.

(In retrospect, I did not mention this in the first few posts because it seemed obvious, but in light of recent events in the news, I'm going to say it explicitly. The heart of my safety philosophy is the avoidance of violent conflict. If I am in a situation where I am even considering using violence to resolve a problem, it is extremely likely that I have failed in one or more of the areas that I will be discussing in these posts.)

This violence avoidance policy extends to all places, including a discussion of the home. A legal scholar will advise you that in the United States, your home is your castle and you've no duty to retreat. That is legally and conceptually correct. That said, if you stand your ground and chose to enter into a violent conflict to protect your stuff... you are an idiot. No matter how well-trained or well-armed you are, there is a risk of dramatic failure in any violent conflict. It is never, ever worth risking if you do not have to.

This "no fortress" discussion is just an articulation on this policy.

Of course, protection for humans is only a piece of the puzzle.

At no point and time will the merit of this "no bars" strategy be more apparent than when you are caught in a fire. Remember that "safety" encompasses just more than conflict with other human beings. Your thinking has to be multi-dimensional. You could make all the best safety decisions in terms of intruders, and some freak short-circuit could still set your house ablaze. Good smoke detectors are just as important in self-defense as flood lights or a devastating right hook. In the event your doors are blocked off, windows equal survival. If they happen to have bars on them, I don't think you'll be effectively employing your electric screw driver while the flames deprive you of all your oxygen.

If you really want to practice good "self-defense", spend some time seriously considering how you'd handle the various natural and man-made disasters that could afflict the area around your home.

In short, your home isn't a castle. It is just a place where you keep your stuff. Your stuff is not that important. Keep that in mind, and a lot of these bits of decision-making should take care of themselves.

Locks, Plants, and Other Exposure Mechanisms

Okay, this is going to seem like a no-brainer, but I've had enough people screw this one up that it merits discussion right up front. I would say roughly three-quarters of the burglaries I've worked involve this particular failure, and I won't dress it up to give it any dignity.

Lock your freaking doors, people.

And not just when you are away. Lock them when you are home.

For some reason, people do not do this, and it baffles me to no end. Let me explain why it is important.

Once a criminal has determined his willingness to commit a particular crime (for this example, let's say home burglary), his next step is to select a target. Understand that humans (criminals included) are opportunists. They will not select a target unless they have a fairly firm belief that they will be successful in their endeavor. One of the biggest factors in which target a criminal selects is the level of exposure, because the more exposure he has, the less likely he is to succeed.

Let's face it. Most people are not criminals. In fact, it they see someone committing a crime, they are likely to call the police and report it. Criminals know this. Therefore, their choice of target will be one where there is the lowest likelihood of them being exposed to non-criminals and, consequently, caught when their activities are reported to the authorities.

A locked door represents a barrier. Certainly, it isn't an impenetrable one. But it will require the criminal to disable the lock, break in the door (one takes time, the other makes noise-- both increase exposure), or take another route like a window (which also increases exposure, because it takes more time and puts the criminal in a place that will be hard to innocently explain away if caught).

In the vast majority of cases, if a would-be burglar encounters a locked door, he will simply move on to another house where the door isn't locked. (This goes for car break-ins as well. I don't think I had more than ten car burglaries in my entire career where the criminal actually busted out a window to get something. Way too much exposure.)  Thus, by simply using a device that is already existing in your home, you have already drastically reduced your safety with virtually no work on your part.

Of course, locked doors are just the beginning.

When you are examining your home from a safety standpoint, think "maximum exposure."

If you are particularly concerned about window entry, I suggest those little planters you can put in your windows. Moving those things around quietly is a bitch, and most burglars know that. The presence of these little things increases exposure in terms of both the time of entry and the potential noise made by the entry. (I strongly advise against barring your windows, but that is another essay I'll have to do later.)

Motion-sensitive lights are great exposure-increasing devices. Sure, we all know that they are just automated little gizmos, but you really can't overstate the effect that a sudden flood of bright light has on the skulking ne'er-do-well. 500 LM is a ton of exposure in an otherwise darkened neighborhood. Besides, while a criminal might suspect that it is just an automated light, they never really know for sure, do they?

Speaking of lights, leaving one on when you aren't home is a great way to increase your safety. Remember what I said about criminals being opportunists? The vast majority of burglars are people that want your stuff. They don't want to have a confrontation with you. They will go out of their way to find homes that don't have people in them. That one light creates a similar problem to the motion sensitive light. Sure, it is probably just a security light... but is the criminal ever really sure? Most criminals will avoid the guess-work and just move on to the next house. It may seem almost idiotic to mention this, but make sure that there are curtains or blinds in your illuminated room-- your goal is to create the fear of exposure in the criminal. If he can see that no one is in the room, all you are doing is more clearly illuminating the shit he is about to steal.

Finally, one of the best exposure-increasing mechanisms is man's best friend. You can check the research on this one. The presence of a canine in your home exponentially reduces your odds of getting broken in to. This is because of the double-threat that dogs present. As it has for ages, the barking of dogs warns us humans with our fairly pathetic sensory organs. This is your exposure factor. There is also the physical threat factor that dogs represent. Getting attacked by any dog is a scary experience.

Ironically, a client once shared with me that he was more concerned with little dogs than big ones. "The little ones can't bite for shit," he said, "so they make up for barking their heads off at every fucking little thing." He believed that it was actually easier to negotiate a big dog during a home burglary. I think there is a lot of truth to this. Thus, even a teacup chihuahua will vastly improve your safety here.

Remember, the goal here isn't to terrify the criminal into giving up his life of crime; it is just to convince him that your house ain't the best target. A dog will go a long way to doing that.

Is this an exhaustive list of exposure increasing mechanisms in the home? Of course not. But even these very basic things can make all the difference in your safety. Invest a small amount of time in looking into them. If you want to get creative come up with a few of your own.

In fact, I'd take it as a kindness if you would share them with me. I never tire of learning new, useful stuff. Besides, it would be pretty awesome to learn a way to defend my home with the blender.

Introduction: Safety First Posts

One of the byproducts of training in martial arts for about a decade is the periodic "Will you teach me basic self-defense?" that I get from friends and family. What these seekers inevitably have in mind is an investment of an hour in which they can learn some "stuff" to use in a situation where they are threatened. My general policy has been to respond politely, but firmly, in the negative.

It ain't cause I'm worried about giving away the magic.

I've inherited some of my teacher's beliefs. He always called these little self-defense primers "bag of tricks" sessions and condemned them pretty strongly.  His reasoning was fairly simple: martial arts isn't simple. A martial art is a collection of complex skills that have to be honed over time, through a process of intensive, focused repetition. Retaining access to all the education you get in martial arts while under the influence of stress takes years of exposure and desensitization.

Ever heard the phrase "a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing?" In few places is this more true that martial practices. The worst thing I could do for someone would be to give them a few extremely rudimentary skills, and endanger them with a false and unrealistic belief in their own ability to defend themselves in a violent situation. It would be like sending someone into a gun fight armed with a feather duster. Thus my firm "no".

About a year ago, I decided to say "yes", but on my own terms.

My friend asked me the inevitable question regarding my "stuff", and in that moment, a devious plan formed in my mind.

Instead of turning her down, I said, "Sure thing. I'm up in Tampa on Saturday anyway. There's a place I go up there to work on my stuff. We can meet up there at 6:30, before I'm set to meet everyone else. Just wear comfy clothes."

She agreed and I gave her the address.

I pulled up in front of the place and leaned against my car. I took out my phone and waited. See, she is a total gadget-lover, and I knew that her smart phone would be dictating the directions to her. I knew that at some point, she would figure out the problem with my plan. The phone buzzed in my hand.

"Pat, I think you gave me the wrong address!"

"I might have," I said, "Go ahead and read it back to me."

She did. "Nope, you've got it perfectly."

"But this is a Starbucks!"

"Exactly. I'm out front in my red pullover."

"I thought you said you came here to do martial arts sometimes!"

"I said I come here sometimes to work on my stuff. The beauty of the term 'stuff' is that it is inclusive... it is martial arts, but it is also a lot of other things."

"You're going to throw me around in the Starbucks parking lot?"

"Even better. I'm going to talk about some stuff that will make you safer."

I could tell she was disappointed, but she agreed to humor me. She pulled into the parking lot and we went in and got some coffee. (Well, in truth, I got a latte.. I think Starbucks has terribly burnt coffee. I can't remember what she got.)

We sat down at that point, and I talked to her. I think it took about an hour to peg down all the details. We went through all of her daily habits and I gave her some safety advice. I suspect I did more good in that one hour than I could have done with a few days of teaching her how to crank on someone's wrist or bust them in the face.

This began the evolution of a process. I've now shared this information in a similar fashion (minus the Starbucks ruse) quite a few times now. It was, in fact, just such a sharing that prompted me to write this in the first place. ("You really ought to write this down somewhere!") The following is a collection of information which I think is useful safety information, which frankly will probably keep you safer than even the fattest "bag of tricks".

Who am I to share it? Certainly no expert of any kind. I'm not an expert in martial arts, criminology, sociology, psychology, or military strategy. What I am is a guy who spent half a decade dealing with street crime as part of my job, and spent more than a little bit of that time talking to criminals in a very candid nature about what they did and why. This advice is the embodiment of a lot of the very predictable, over-arching patterns I saw in civilian criminal violence in this country.

All of the posts related to this topic will carry the label "Safety First".

Potato Glass

I've a few essays that I considered putting up today, but frankly, their importance has been circumvented by a strange discovery that occurred in our kitchen. Today, I tell you the strange tale of potato glass.

Before I get to the genesis of this miracle substance, it will be helpful if I begin by giving you a layout of our kitchen. Like the apartment itself, it is a small little thing, and a bit sad. The kitchen is a small alcove nestled in the corner of the living room. There is some cabinetry, but our passion for the acquisition of kitchen gadgetry easily dwarfs this meager offering of cupboards. It would be fair to say that our kitchen area overflows with food paraphernalia. Due to this scarcity of space, storage of gear requires some unique configurations.

Case in point: the cast-iron pan. A few years ago, I purchased a cast-iron frying pan. In short order, I discovered that there is a reason that people have been using them for hundreds of years. They heat evenly, retain said heat, and fare well on the stove and in the oven. Cast-irons also have non-stick properties without any help from space-age materials from the Kennedy era. It also bears mentioning that the damn things are nearly indestructible. (Key word: Nearly.) Unfortunately, our cabinet containing pans, like the rest of our house, was overflowing well before the cast-iron pan ever made its appearance in our kitchen.

The solution? We put it in the oven. It makes a lot of sense, if you think about it. Cast-iron pans are pretty much impervious to all harm. It doesn't matter to the pan whether or not it gets baked along with tater tots, cookies, or cakes. The cast-iron pan, a true creature of the ages, shrugs off these trials and tribulations. Thus, for the past few years, it has gotten baked along with everything else we ever cooked.

It didn't give a damn.

Until today.

I have this strange tradition on Saturdays following particularly demanding weeks. See, I have my son all day. My wife works. It is a great time, because the two of us get to play and have adventures. The only real hiatus is nap-time, which falls between noon and 2. On these rough weeks, I go to the grocery store and buy a good steak. My wife and son aren't steak people, so I use this small window of "me time" while Jack is napping to cook something no one else I live with is interested in eating. (I call it "Steak-tuary Saturday", but that really isn't relevant to the story. I just like the term.)

As I've previously detailed in other places, I can make some damn fine music when I put together steak and cast-iron. It was with just such a tune in mind that I reached for my cast-iron pan this afternoon. When I did so, I discovered something strange and, upon reflection, more than a bit wondrous.

I pulled out the pan, and ran my hand over it and discovered a bizarre glassy surface instead of the rough, oily, and re-assuring one I was expecting. Upon visual inspection, it appeared that the strange gloss covered a large portion of the pan. It was totally clear and smooth.

It first it seemed a minor annoyance. Just one more pot to scrub in an otherwise tidy kitchen. With an exasperated sigh, I set to heating the pan, and scouring it with tongs and a wet towel. Given that this particular pan is well-seasoned and not prone to sticking to food, that is the most I have ever had to do in order to return it to its pristine state.

In this case, it didn't do a damn thing. Not to be deterred, I got a metric buttload (measured precisely) of kosher salt and scoured hell out of the pan with that. Again, despite vigorous scrubbing and a few suggestions about exactly where this glossy aberration should go, it remained.

By this point, my mind craved some guidance as to what the hell this phantom substance was. In all of my years of washing dishes (and we're sneaking up on three decades of doing that job), I have never encountered a substance like it in my life. I called up my wife at work.

"So, honey, what the hell did you cook in the stove last? Epoxy?"

"I'm sorry? This is the library. Who are you?"

"Oh, hi Inez. This is Pat Songy. Can you please transfer me to my wife?"

"Sure Pat. Please hold."

I heard a click and some muffled laughter. Monica picked up.

"You're baking epoxy? What the hell?" my wife asked with some amusement in her voice.

"No. Evidently, you are! There is bizarre glass on the bottom of the cast-iron! Nothing will kill it, and I've tried  everything short of holy water and a crucifix!"

"Fact: That only works on vampires, not cookware. And for your information, the only thing I've done in that oven since you last used the cast iron was bake two potatoes."

"You're kidding. Just potatoes?"

"My hand to God. Just potatoes."

"You made potato glass."

"What?!"

"There is a substance in our cast-iron pan. It is smooth and clear like glass. It is as hard as steel. Evidently, you made it with two potatoes. Potato glass could be our key to wealth."

"So, how are you going to cook your steak?"

It was a sobering question. It quickly brought me back to the heart of my dilemma. No pan, no beautifully pan-seared sirloin. Now that was a serious problem. You can't expect a man of my station to forgo Steak-tuary Saturday just because my wife inadvertently created a space-age polymer with a potato.

That would just be ridiculous.

I got off the phone with her and re-engaged the cast-iron with renewed vigor. Steel wool didn't touch it. A second round of kosher salt did nothing. Getting it smoking hot and scouring it with wet rags didn't even make a dint. Finally, more than a little miffed, I resorted to extreme measures.

The chisel isn't usually a tool that I go for in the kitchen, but I guess there is an exception to every rule. Using a hammer and chisel, I could not injure the substance, but I did manage to knock off flakes of iron that the potato glass had evidently bonded to on a molecular level. Somewhere in my frenzy of hammering, a little sane thought flew into my head.

"Pat, you bought this for $8.99 at K-Mart. Is this truly worth all this swearing and exertion?"

A friend's grandmother once said that no matter what happened to a cast-iron pan, you could throw it in a bonfire and get it just about good as new. While I briefly considered how I might create such a conflagration in my apartment complex, I put the idea aside. You really don't want to juggle toddler nap-time and a raging inferno, steak or no. That's life experience talking.

Ultimately, I cooked the steak in a lesser pan. Tomorrow I'll have to procure a new cast-iron. Though I think I'll save the original and send it off to a lab. Who knows? In a few months, you could be reading the blog of a wealthy potato glass magnate.

Of course, we'll have to come up with a more clever name. I think, given its starchy origins and my love of Star Wars, I'll call it carb-onite.

Or maybe "Monica's Badass Potato Glass". That has a nice ring to it.





... steak-tuary.

Short: Soulless Cups

Little. Cylindrical. Coldly odorless and antiseptic. Its dull gleam quietly speaks of potentially explosive heat, pressure, and explosive consequences as you roll it in your hand. Its little clean lines and faint curves linger in your mind. It is oddly soulless and cold in its beauty.

You might think I'm talking about a bullet. While that description would surely be apt, I am actually describing the ubiquitous K-Cup. If you aren't familiar with these bizarre products, they are single serving pods of coffee. Chamber a "round" into your Keurig coffee-maker, and seconds later, after pushing a button, a single serving of coffee is blasted into your cup in a pre-determined amount which may or may not fill your chosen cup.

I have a problem with these little machines.

"But Pat," you say, "They are so practical! Who needs a whole pot of coffee? Waste not! Instant gratification! Cool modular future stuff! What is not to like?"

I'll tell you what.

Let me take you to a little rotting building. It used to be a bank, and after the bank went out of business, became a government law office. The coffee was "subpar", but it was still coffee and it was cheaper than walking down the road to the local coffee shop. A group of people stand around the coffee pot, waiting while said pot drips its torturous, slow drip. Of course, it would not do to just stand there and look at the pot (unless they are all really fucking tired), so they talk. In fact, it isn't just any talking, since that is such a broad, catch-all term. "Talking" includes everything from pre-coitus dialog to legal argument to hostage negotiation. No, these people aren't just talking.

These people are shooting the shit.

They share all the little details that come together to form the gestalt of life. This person dressed like a hussy. That person just came into some money. My youngest nephew just turned four. I've got this bitch of a theft trial later in the week. I finally got that new chair I've been bothering the boss about for the past two years. That new attorney might be gay.

Somehow, that random sharing of information transforms into something better.

In a weird sense, that impromptu gathering, necessitated by the gurgling pot, starts to feel like the magic spell cast by a campfire. You find yourself drawn to it, starting at it, and enjoying the warmth and community, even if you are not particularly cold. That little bit of inconvenience becomes a great excuse to share your humanity with your fellow man.

In my opinion, it is these little reality pockets that make work bearable.

That is what is missing from K-cups. Everyone gets their single serving and quietly leaves. I don't think it matters how gourmet it is, or how convenient. I look at my 3/4 full cup of coffee and think to myself, "Something is missing... and it isn't just a quarter cup of coffee."

So even though it is more labor-intensive, messier, and not necessarily economical, give me my coffee pot. I need my shit-shootery, my humanity, and hell... I might just need a second cup when I finish the first.

Go for the Gusto

One of my son's favorite shows is called "Dinosaur Train". The title is delightfully informative, because the show does indeed chronicle the exploits of dinosaurs who ride on a train. The only thing it is missing in order to be fully informative are the words "time-travelling" neatly inserted between the two words in the title. Essentially, a family of dinosaurs use a this time-machine to visit different parts of the dinosaur age, and meet the dinosaurs that live there. On the whole, it is a solid children's program. Jim Henson's son and his team produce it, and it continues to feed that time-honored bond (neigh obsession) between toddlers and dinosaurs.

This afternoon, I encountered my absolute favorite D.T. episode.

It bears the elegant sobriquet "Dinosaur Poop!"

I doubtless give you an insight into my childish character by sharing this, but I laughed at that title for a solid twenty minutes after reading it. It is such a wonderful piece of written humor. No, seriously, it is. Stay with me here. First, there is the obvious laugh: they went there. The writers trod on that most delicate topic of dung. Even more courageous, the episode actually focused on dinosaur droppings. The droppings were no mere set piece or carefully-buried sideline factoid. They were the main event.

What makes it absolutely perfect written humor? The exclamation point, of course. They've not just muttered "...dinosaur poop." The creators have shouted it from the rafters.

Dinosaur poop!

Admit it. You're smiling a little bit right now. This sort of humor, which vaults neatly over the head of the toddler audience, is one of those wonderful winks to the parents. It is the writer's way of saying, "Hey, I know this isn't what you want to be watching, Mom and Dad. Sometimes I get bored, too. In fact, so bored that I am writing an episode about dinosaur poop, just so I can find some light in this child-themed, profanity-lacking, educational hellhole!"

Okay, maybe they aren't saying it exactly like that, but that is how it rings in my head. It is amazing how the a couple of simple words and the right punctuation, placed just so can have you giggling for twenty minutes, creating a whole tableaux of amusing images.

The experience made me think about something that has been dogging me in my writing. All too often,  writers (myself included) ham-string themselves with the insecurity hiding in their writing. Doubt me? Let's take a look at a few examples.

Passive voice is a good place to start. Ask any writing teacher what the most foul affliction of the human soul is, and he will promptly respond, "Passive voice." Nearly every writer I've ever met has the same problem. If left unmonitored, these writers will quickly lapse into the passive voice. Doesn't matter if you've been at the craft for twenty years. Passive voice sneaks in to all of our stuff when we aren't quite sure of ourselves.

Examples:

The bat was carried by Ted.
The body was tossed into the pit by Steve.
The sex was had by Brandy and Tom.

It is as if the writers aren't quite sure how readers will interpret the action, so said actions are couched in the wordiest, weakest way possible. It's like walking up to a beautiful woman at a bar and starting out with, "Um, excuse me, ma'am, you're quite pretty, and, uh, if it is okay, I'd like to buy you a drink." Yuck! All that hesitancy kills the thing before it even starts. What makes it worse? Readers can tell instantly. They might not be able to articulate why it is weak, but enough passive voice and anything starts getting painful to read.

As creators, writers really struggle with putting their heart onto the page. Insecurity comes out, and if it controls enough, you get tripe like the examples above.  This is one of those areas where "Dinosaur Poop!" is so brilliant. It is fearless. No beating about the bush there. It is powerful and direct.

The above sentences could be, too.

Ted carried the bat.
Steve tossed the body into the pit.
Brandy and Tom had sex.

And that last example? That brings me up to another insecurity I see in writing. I call it "wrong word" syndrome. Everyone who writes has a little voice in their head... well, at least one. Sometimes more. But at least one voice that is telling them what they are really trying to say. This guy (or girl) tells it like it is. He hollers this truth from his dark little chamber in the human mind. The problem is that these very true words originate in the subconscious, and have to dash through the minefield of upper-brain insecurity before they escapes out and onto the paper.

Rarely do these poor words get to the other side of that minefield in one piece. Usually they is missing a limb or two. This is the sad story behind "Brandy and Tom had sex." Even as I wrote it, I realized that I had censored it. Allow me to properly state that sentence.

Brandy and Tom fucked.

(And most likely, it was much more satisfying than when they just "had sex". And it certainly beat the living shit out of the sex that was had by them... that was just a debacle.)

The beautiful thing about "Dinosaur Poop!" is that it uses the most direct words. It uses the right words, even if they are a bit childish. And it punches you in the face. And as you sit there on your ass, marveling at how someone got away yelling that at the start of a children's show, you inevitably find yourself laughing. (Or, if you are really bent and prone to written humor, you write an essay about it.) That is the problem with Brandy and Tom having sex. It isn't quite emphatic enough. To really capture the tone I was aiming for, I needed the "F-bomb" in all its glory. Too many times, writers use weaker words because they are worried about offending readers, or somehow ruining their narrative "personality", if you will.

"Faugh!" I say to that. The use of the exact right word (even if it seems a little edge or inappropriate) can be a brilliant ambush that delights the reader, if you have the guts and panache to do it. That is really why I thought this truly bizarre example was worth writing about.

The lesson "Dinosaur Poop!" teaches is that bold simplicity works. The trick is putting aside enough of your insecurities to embrace it and just go for it.

Sharpening System Overview

The beauty of this format is that I can talk about whatever the hell I want to. Every now and then, I have a desire to do writing that isn't so much an exercise in entertainment, but rather just the sharing of useful information that I've acquired to those so interested. Therefore, if you do not care about sharpening and maintaining the knives and tools in your home, please do yourself a favor and return to whatever you were reading before you clicked on this link.

For those remaining, this post addresses one of my stranger hobbies. I have a bizarre collection of hobbies. Along with my practice of law, I do martial arts, I hike, I run, I write, and I cook. As an extension of cooking, I accidentally fell into the practice of knife sharpening, and somehow it became one of my hobbies as well. For those who have never dabbled in it, sharpening may seem like a simple chore. I certainly thought that it was when I decided to clean up the edges on my kitchen knives. The knives are made of very fine Swiss steel, and they have excellent weight and feel, but their edge retention is not phenomenal. After a year of regular use, the three in my block that I favored were really dull.

Imagine my surprise when I started researching this "chore" of sharpening and discovered that people did it for a living. Especially with the more basic methods, there is a lot of technical skill and even some mental discipline involved. Even with the more "user friendly" methods, there is a lot of science involved, and a lot of different strategies for solving the same problems. I wanted to do a short post addressing the more common methods for those interested in maintaining their own knives, to some extent or another. I wish I had an over view like this when I started learning about this.

The idea for this primer is to give a basic background on the pros and cons of each system, so you can pick what works for you. I'm going to do them in "families" of problem solving, started with the least amount of skill and ending with the most demanding.

Electric / Automated Sharpeners


Virtually no skill involved here. Buy the machine, stick your knife in it, and it does the sharpening. This is as easy as it gets. You might wonder why most people don't use these. There are a few good reasons.

These systems eat a lot of metal off the knife. If you have a crappy $10 knife from the grocery store, that might not be a problem. If you have a $100 chef's knife, you might be a little apprehensive about getting it chewed up. My grandfather used one of these electric machines religiously, and when he died, we found a drawer of whittled down sharp slivers of metal that used to be knives. Yikes.

The speed that these things boast also can be a problem. That super-fast grinding action creates heat. Most knives have a tempered edge. If the heat from the machine gets high enough, these machines can ruin the temper and screw up the hardness of your knife's edge. Again, if you have a cheap knife, this may not be an issue.

Finally, there are limitations on the results in these systems. You will assuredly get a somewhat sharp edge from the electric machines. It will be usable and up to most tasks. These machines will never get a blade extremely sharp. These machines tend to cut the edge at a pre-set angle. If this angle varies from the geometry of your knife, it will simply eat knife until it gets to the appropriate angle. This can negatively affect cutting performance. If a knife-maker put a 17.5 degree bevel on your knife, there's a reason. These electric machines totally disregard that.

Verdict: If you don't give a damn about your knives and can't be bothered to learn any skills, this is the one for you.

Aside: Belt Sanders and Grinding Wheels


These are really heavy pieces of machinery. You can get scary edges with them, but it takes skill and it can be dangerous. I'm addressing stuff that your average person can do at home here, so I won't discuss these in detail.

V-Sharpeners


I should make clear that I'm not talking about the little "pull through" sharpeners here. I will address those monstrosities below. The v-sharpeners are the systems where there are two abrasive components that are propped into a "v" shape, and you run your knife down one part of the V, then the other, in order to get it sharp. The best examples I can think of for this category is the Spyderco Sharpmaker or Crocksticks.

I think these represent a good compromise.

The real pain about freehand sharpening (just using a sharpening bench stone) is that you have to make many, many passes over the stone with the knife blade held at precisely the same angle. Let me assure you, this is a demanding skill that is acquired through years of practice.

The v-systems take care of the angle part for you. All you have to do is hold the knife blade straight up and down as you pass it along the sides of the V. Even for rank beginners, people tend to get pretty decent results and sharp blades with these systems. This is a nice way to get your knives sharp without too much of a learning curve, but avoiding the metal massacre that is the electric sharpener.

There are some problems, of course. If your v-system only has one or two angles (for example, Spyderco's system will sharpen at 30 or 40 degree angles), this can be a limitation. Unless you want to start treading into that "I'm learning a complex skill" territory, you can only use these to sharpen at the angle they set. Of course, not all knives are supposed to be sharpened at the angle set by the v-sharpener.

You have to understand that any blade-making is a science. And if you buy anything worthwhile, quite a bit of thought when into all the aspects of the blade. The handle, the steel, the temper, the blade shape, the edge geometry... they all matter. If the bevel of your knife is at a certain angle, it is probably because someone who knows a hell of a lot more about bladecraft than you made it that way. This is where the v-systems experience a problem. Like I said before, the angles do matter. You might be compromising your knife's performance a little bit if you go with a v-sharpener.

Mind you, it isn't a huge compromise. There is a reason that legions swear by these things. Even professional knife-makers and sharpeners will often "cheat" with one of these if they need to put an edge on something quickly.

Verdict: if you've got some decent knives you want to take care of, but don't want to learn to much, this is your absolute best option, in my opinion.

Clamp and File Systems


There are some companies, like Lansky, that have a much more direct way of solving the "angle problem". In these systems, you clamp a metal guide to your knife and then push an abrasive on the end of a stick back and forth across the blade.

The good thing is that it takes almost all the possibility for human error out of the angle thing. You can only use them at the set angle, so you are going to get wonderful consistency and good results. In fact, you'll get slightly better consistency than the v-sharpeners because those still rely on your perception of "vertical".

I won't repeat the bad, but you are again limited because these systems only use a set number of angles. See above regarding blade geometry, etc. I won't beat a dead horse.

The other issue I've discovered with these systems has to do with the limitations on the actual shape of the blade. On a fairly straight cutting edge, these things get phenomenal results. On a curved edge, like a chef's knife or a hunting knife, you have problems. To hit the whole knife, you've got to move the clamp around. When you do, there is going to be some variation in the angle as it goes along these different pieces of the edge. I briefly considered putting a diagram with some geometry up to prove this... but it is Saturday night and I'm tired. Please just take my word for it.

Consequently, you can get some less-than-stellar results with these if you try the wrong knife. Also, if you care about the cosmetics of your blade, the clamps can scratch up the blade itself.

Verdict: Great system... for some knives. If you have a fairly non-curvy knife that fits the bill and you don't want to learn much, this is another easy option.

Bench Stones


There's a reason these are last. Bench stones represent the most basic way to put an edge on steel. The concept is really simple. Take something harder than the knife, and rub the knife along it to wear away the new edge. Simple, right?

Wrong.

The idea is simple. The execution is not. Good sharpening takes technique. The pressure must stay consistent for each of the dozens or hundreds of knife passes. It has to stay consistent for each pass, for each millimeter of the blade. Same goes for the angle of the blade as it is held against the stone. For the many, many passes, it has to be consistent or else you are just shaving metal and wasting your time.

This is not easy. Good sharpening on a bench stone takes extremely good coordination, focus, and a lot of patience. People do it for years and years before they get good. It is absolutely a learned skill. In fact, in many parts of the world, it is a profession. If you doubt me, go on google and type in the word togishi.

I take a lot of enjoyment through freehand sharpening because it almost becomes like Zen sitting for me. The mind is totally absorbed and all of the clutter just falls away as you totally commit yourself to a simple task.

Go to any professional knife sharpener, and you will see a few bench stones laying around. There is a reason. While they are the most demanding of the abrasives you can use in terms of skill, they also get the best results. Swordmakers, dentists, woodworkers, and anyone else that needs great results for extremely valuable tools use bench stones. If a skilled person progresses through the right grits for the right amount of time, you can get mind-bending sharpness out of a blade.

These stones are also the most versatile type of sharpener. Doesn't matter what angle the maker put on your blade. Proper use of a bench stone will get the blade razor sharp and keep that optimal angle. These also tend to take the least metal off your knife. That is why any really expensive, nice blade tends to only see a bench stone.

Verdict: If you want to devote a few years of your life to learning a skill, this is the most bang for your buck. These get the absolute best results if you've got the talent. So, if you own and maintain really expensive blades, either acquire this skill or pay someone who knows how to do it.

Aside: "Pull Across" Sharpeners


I'm talking about the little plastic handle with a carbide "V" at the tip. These are the ones where you put a knife edge up on a counter, and run this device right along the cutting edge of the knife.

Don't use these. Period.

Foremost, they are dangerous as hell. You are applying pressure with your hand, directly towards and across the cutting edge you just sharpened. If you slip, you will really fuck your hand up. I've yet to encounter any pull-across that doesn't address this huge safety concern. Sure, there's a little plastic finger guard on some of them... but that does absolutely fuck-all for your wrist or forearm if you slip.

Also, the performance on these things is really lack-luster. Like the electric, that ultra-hard carbide rips a ton of metal off your blade. It will create a really sharp edge. That edge is totally unpolished, really skinny, and really unstable. It will only last for a few uses, and then you'll be going right back to your trusty death-trap to get your edge back.

In short, these things trash your knife and repeatedly endanger you in the process.

Do. Not. Use. Them.

Pullus Phasma Phasmatis

Prologue

I woke with a gasp. My wife slept next to me. I lay in my own bed. Dawn light had just started creeping into our humble little bedroom. The clock ticked. The garish, bright comforter lay haphazardly draped over my wife and I. The only thing out of place was the chicken sitting on my nightstand. 

The chicken cocked its head and looked at me with one beady, black eye.

"You again! Stay away, you sonofabitch!" 

I sat bolt upright in bed. I fumbled at my nightstand and grabbed my knife. The razor-sharp blade flew out with a satisfying "plok". I brandished it at the chicken. 

"Haven't you brought enough suffering on our home? Avaunt!" 

The chicken seemed unaffected by my raised voice and proffered blade. Beside me, my wife began to gently snore, oblivious as to the life and death conflict between myself and this otherworldly gallus gallus domesticus. I continued through clenched teeth. 

"What is it, chicken? What does this mean? Two years that you've been gone, and now this? Are we pregnant again?"

The chicken shook its head.

"The next time you show your face here, chicken, you have my solemn vow that I will end you, braise you, and eat you. Rest assured."

***

In many cultures, totem animals represent all kinds of people, places, and ideas. My wife is the only woman I know whose uterus has a totem. That totem is the spirit chicken. This is its story. 

I seriously debated whether this topic merited its own blog entry, but when I got right down to it, this whole phenomenon is just too fucking weird not to document somewhere. If nothing else, it will be delightful if, twenty years from now, my son reads this and discovers to his horror that his mother's uterus has an otherworldly chicken sentinel. In the bizarre little movie that plays in my head, his reading of this tale will somehow how infect his mind with the spirit chicken. Then perhaps it will follow him around and leave me be. Poe had his raven. Us Songys have the chicken. 

My first encounter with the chicken occurred on the day of my son's birth, October 31, 2009. 

Allow me to paint the picture. It was Halloween and a full moon to boot. The maternity ward at Bayfront was packed to the rafters. The ward had more ready-to-pop prengant women than it could handle. You could almost feel the chaos radiating off the place. In the hallways, frantic near-fathers paced back and forth with nothing better to do. Pregnant women hooked to monitors walked laps around the ward, wearing dark expressions. You could almost hear them thinking, "Please, God, let one of these steps knock this little parasite loose." I swear to God one of them did shikko, the high-legged, fierce stomp that sumo wrestlers sometimes make before beginning their match. The nurses had dispensed with any dressing-up of their coffee. They drank the coffee black, tossed it back like women condemned to die. The coffee was gulped without adornments like cream or sugar. Such luxuries did not exist for the brave tamers of these pregnant beasts. 

My wife, her mother, and I were on our first night in the ward. The doctors gave Monica a drug to induce her labor. The little beeping monitors advised us that she was having contractions, but she did not feel them yet. At this point, her water had yet to break. 

When we first arrived at the hospital, I felt the adrenaline pounding through my veins. After months and months of preparation, it was finally going to happen. Jack the Destroyer was set to come into the world on the coolest birthday imaginable. 

Somehow, the only think I could think to pray was, "Please, God, don't let me see my wife poop on the table." Not sure why that particular prayer came to mind, but that's what I was thinking. We had made it eight years with a strict "closed door while on the toilet policy", and this was about to blow that streak to hell. 

What can I say? You think of weird shit under stress. 

Anyway, one can only be excited for so long. Excited in this case gave way to anxious. Anxious gave way to bored. Finally bored gave way to Maury Povitch (there's an irony to paternity shows in the labor ward). Povich gave way to sleep. I finally closed my eyes to get a few moments of sleep on the little pull-out father couch in our suite. 

When I dream, it is usually a vast and encompassing thing. Bizarre, intricate plots expand over huge, faraway places. My dreams are the subconscious equivalent of Wagner's compositions (minus all the pro-Nazi stuff, of course). I found it more than passing strange when this particular dream began in the precise room where I had just fallen asleep. That is entirely too pedestrian for my strange, sadistic psyche. 

Monica was sitting there in the dream. Sadly, she was still watching Maury. Ray-Ray's father still hadn't been determined. My mother-in-law still occupied her chair across the room and quietly worked on her laptop. The picture seemed entirely normal... but for the chicken sitting on the bed. It was a rooster, though somewhat young. Cockerel might be a better term. Its bright red comb wobbled as it surveyed the room with its oil spot eyes. It had a deep sense of intelligence, and though I feel positively ridiculous saying so, had an air of menace about it. 

The spirit chicken gave me a meaningful look, somehow raised an eyebrow (despite the fact that chickens do not have eyebrows), and walked over to my wife's extremely pregnant abdomen. The rooster gave it an abrupt peck. 

And then, as my clients so often tell me in the comfort of my office, "shit got crazy." 

After the peck, there was a moment of ominous silence. And then, FWOOSH. A torrent of water exploded out of the bottom of my wife's largely undignified hospital gown. And when I say "torrent," I want you to think of that bloody elevator scene from The Shining. This explosion washed away the chicken in its violence. The room filled quickly, a veritable amniotic white-water rapids. 

In that precise moment, I snapped awake. Monica looked at me, shifted her weight, and then paused meaningfully. 

"Oh shit," she said, "my water just broke." 

That's right. You read the above narrative correctly. The spirit chicken, totem of my wife's uterus, had somehow reached into the waking world and predicted, if not actually caused, the breaking of her water. You have to understand that I am not a superstitious person in any way, shape, or form. I do not spend time pondering the unseen or wondering what lay beyond this world. I freely walk under ladders and more than once have intentionally crossed my own path with a black cat. I care not for these silly things. I am a man of science, like my father before me. 

But despite that, this freaking dream chicken broke my wife's water. I swear it with my hand to fucking God. 

From that point, things got relatively crazy. Her heart rate went all over the place. The baby's heart-rate went all over the place. Hours of labor passed. Pain was intense. Evidently once your water breaks, contractions are royal high bastards. Monica got an epidural and promptly wore out the little "more drugs" button. After a brief, but terrifying bout where we were concerned we might lose the baby, I decided to go with a cesarean section. (And yes, I said that I decided this. Not because I know better, or because I am smart or even that great under pressure. It is just that by that point, my wife had hit the "more" button so many times that she was high as a freaking kite.) 

I won't gore or bore you with the details of that process, suffice to say that I never want to see my wife's innards again. 

Luckily, everyone came out happy and healthy. Jack is a beautiful two year-old at this point, and he is the joy of our lives. Thanks to the extremely rough pregnancy that produced Jack and the wickedly powerful post-partem depression that hit my wife, we opted to shut the baby factory down after that first attempt. 

For two and a half years, the chicken remained blessedly, or perhaps ominously, silent. And then the other day, he made the dramatic re-appearance that I mentioned above. If he can be believed, his appearance doesn't mean anything, but hell, how do you go about deciding whether or not a uterus totem animal is trustworthy? I have no freaking idea. 

Regardless, there is no deeper moral to this story. I have no insight about the human condition to share with you today. I just wrote this because I'm one of the few dudes who has had a spirit chicken break his wife's water, and if you can't share that type of thing on the internet, then what is the point? 

Epilogue

Totally didn't see her poop.