On The Outside, Looking In.

Remember back when I posted about how things always seem to change when I complain about my situation and they didn't usually change for the better? Well... it happened again. The complaining and things changing part, anyway. Surprisingly enough, things are actually a lot better now.

Halfway through September, I was transferred again and, no, it wasn't back to my original desk. I've been moved to a completely new desk in yet another division altogether. And, yes, this came as a result of me complaining. Not to myself or into the vast open spaces of the internet but to what appears to be a more effective audience: HR.

Yeah. Now, I'm normally the kind of guy who tries to make the best of things. You know the type: the guy who quietly sits and mutters to himself instead of proactively initiating change until one day he finally reaches his breaking point and thoughts of property damage start playing around inside his head.

S-stapler...

Yeah, that guy. Or, at least, I thought I was. When things actually got to the point with my supervisor where I couldn't take it anymore I ended up going to HR and lodging a complaint. I even surprised myself. One thing led to another and here I am, working on the executive offices. Please note: my job title and salary remain the same level (the bottom). I'm just doing the job I was hired to do in a different setting.

I guess this is the point where I go into the ups and downs I had with the supervisor in question and talk about how things at my new station are working out. But... no. That's enough of that. Instead, let's talk about the time I locked myself outside my office... and, by extension, the entire building... on the top floor. That's way more interesting, right?

AHEM! The government office that employs me takes up the top three floors of a seven-story building. The executive floors are, of course, on the top floor of those three floors. On each floor there are two emergency exits and each of those exits also grants staff access to the balconies where staff is free to go to think, focus on a difficult task/assignment, view a passing parade in the streets below, have a private conversation or weep mournfully as they contemplate the meaninglessness to their existence (it's cathartic). As such there are no alarms to go off when these doors are opened.

Most of the time, though, people just go outside whenever the air-conditioning starts acting up. On rare occasions a unit will break down but, more often than not, they work too well and it gets super-cold in the office. Not many of us are built to take it but I don't mind. I just throw on my jacket and I'm good so, with only a few exceptions, I pretty much ignore those balcony entrances, even though I'm now seated right in front of one of them (naturally, this means, if shit goes down, I'm the guaranteed to be one of the first ones out).

That was until yesterday...

It had been raining all week. The air was colder than usual and even I was feeling the chill in the air. Then, from the window behind me, I happened to notice the sun had finally decided to check in on us. The sky was so bright I just knew it would be nice and warm outside already. I imagined the feeling of the warm sunlight on my skin and I could feel myself being pulled to the outside. That's when I decided to just go out and thaw off for a bit.

Now, as I said earlier, I hardly availed myself of the privilege before but the few times I did, I got in and out with no problems. However, what I didn't know was that, unlike the other balcony entrances, the door behind my desk does not open from the outside. So when a gust of wind eagerly finished closing the door for me I barely paid it any mind. I soaked in some sun, looked around a little at the nearby streets and buildings and headed back for the inside. Only... When I got the the door... Yeah...

"Of course..." was my first thought because, obviously if anyone's going to get themselves locked out it's me.

This was when I looked around and realized the balconies aren't connected around the corners and there was a seven-floor-deep gap between me and the only other entrance on the floor. Outstanding! My next thought was to discretely call one of my coworkers on their cells so they could come over and let me back in. This was unfortunately hampered by the fact that I had earlier put my phone to charge and it was at that moment sitting on my desk, evilly smirking at me (IT SMIRKED! I SAW IT!) through the locked window.

"Naturally!" I sighed.

At this point I was left with three options:

1. Climb up the roof-access ladder and get to either the other balcony entrance or the door to the main stairwell.
2. Go across to the emergency stairwell, make my way down to the floor just below and get in from an entrance there.
3. Knock until someone heard me and came to my rescue.

Each option, however, comes with it's own set of problems. Like I said, it was windy. Climbing up to the roof and walking across seemed risky, especially since the entire center of the building is hollow all the way to the ground floor and all that covered that section was a huge glass dome so yeah... No! I considered the emergency stairwell option for a quite a bit but I wasn't sure if opening those doors triggered any alarms or if any other doors opened from the inside besides the one on the ground floor. Common sense told me I should be fine. The fear of sending the building into a panic if I trip off an emergency alarm told me back off that idea a bit.

See? Some of them do trigger alarms. I wasn't letting the lack of a label lull me into a false sense security.
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While I was considering trying to get to the floor below, it also occurred to me that there was an Option 4: Since the building had a sort of Mayan pyramid thing going on, I could just ignore the stairs and jump down to the balcony below.

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But I decided against it.

This left me with knocking and calling at the offending door until someone came to my rescue. While this may seem like the most viable solution to sum, to me it was the least desirable option. My new supervisor, who happens to be the one who sits closest to me was on lunch at the time so this meant I had to really make myself heard. Not only did I leave myself open to ridicule from whoever came to let me back in but I ran the risk of attracting the attention of the executive staff since their offices were all around my area. Being on the floor only a few months, I felt that somehow this wouldn't help me make a good impression.

Still, of all the available options this was the only one that could count as "sane" so I figured I'd play it safe. So I knocked... and waited... and knocked again... and waited some more. Then I realized there was no one within earshot. I looked at the emergency stairwell door again. I began to wonder if they'd fired me if I set off the fire alarm and sent hundreds of people scampering.

I knocked again, slightly louder. Nothing.

I decided to enjoy the view for a bit more until someone noticed I was missing. I figured, worst-case scenario, I had at least half an hour until my supervisor got back from her lunch break. Roughly ten seconds later I was back at the door, knocking and trying (and failing) to not look overly pathetic. I realized if someone did pass by, I'd only look like I was getting some fresh air rather than trapped outside. This time, though, my efforts paid off and a few minutes later I heard a 'click' as the knob turned and the door opened.

"What's the password?" It was the personal assistant to the third-highest ranking guy there. She was just returning to her desk and heard me knocking.

"Thanks," I smiled and started to pull the door open.

She held firm on her end, "Noooooo. That's not the password." She smiled back with a sing-songy reply.

I joked it off and made a few guesses (all of the wrong) but she insisted on making me squirm for a minute before letting me pass. FYI: It was "open sesame", apparently. Go figure.

"You now this door doesn't open from the outside, right?" she said as I walked in, "We normally block it open when we go outside."

"No... No I did not."

All-in-all I endured only minimal embarrassment and, as a bonus, the rain held up the entire time. That counts as a good a day, in my book.

Bend It Like Vinny.

I've been a delinquent blogger lately. I blame this mostly on work. I'll admit, I haven't been handling the recent changes well and as the realization that I'm now a permanent fixture in this division set in, I guess it started to get to me a little... Okay, more than a little. In the end, however, it's just something I have to deal with and, if that doesn't work, I can always apply for a transfer to another division. However, since I'm not too eager to take a spin on that roulette wheel, I've been trying to make the best of things as they stand.

So, what have I been up to? Glad you asked. There have actually been a lot of stuff going on that I should have dedicated entire posts to but due to lack of motivation my busy schedule they all just sat in the dark corner of that one shelf in my brain where post ideas go until they reach their expiry date and have to be thrown out or get thrown together into one update stew in the hope that something palatable can be cooked up. Surprisingly enough, sometimes, in picking through those post ideas, I find one or two may actually have enough "meat" for consumption on their own or, as in this case, has a longer expiry date than others.

I think I've sufficiently picked that metaphor clean...

Anyway, let's get to the reason I gathered you all here. You see, a few weeks ago, it finally happened. It was finally suggested to me that I should work in porn (cue the random search results linking this blog to sexual deviance... again). It wasn't suggested because of my dazzling good looks or rock-hard abs, mind you. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty but my abs (as well as most of the rest of me) are safely insulated under a generous coating of fat. For their own protection.

How the remark came about was as a result of my freakish flexibility. If I mentioned it before, I don't remember, but I can do all kinds of stuff like front and side splits, touching my palms together behind my back and things like "the bridge" with no trouble at all.

Like this. Only imagine, instead of a small child, a moderately overweight male in his late thirties... or not. Probably better if you don't.
Source

Combine this with my Thai-boxing and what you have is a short, fat guy who can kick guys much taller than himself in the head with little to no effort. Unless the other guys more than six feet tall. Then, I might need a running start.

Anyway, the other day I was showing off stretching (yes, I still have to stretch) and, when I do this, three things normally happen:

1. Most, if not all present will end up stopping what they're doing to watch (in horror).
2. This is followed by a few of them collectively shuddering as they imaging the pain involved in a normal human body bending the way I do.
3. Since we make fun of each other as much as we work out, someone always has something snarky to say and that'll usually draw my attention to the eyes that are on me.

The time in question, I was told I was wasting my "God-given talents" by not working in the adult entertainment industry and that there should have at least been a "Fifty Shades of Vinny" out by now (actually, the title of this post could work too). So, if nothing else, at least I've got that going for me.

Now, this is the place where I said you'd have to be a masochist to train. Added to that the fact that my nickname there is "Hentai" (Japanese for perverted). I'm not sure how I got that particular nickname. Maybe I shouldn't have explained to them the meaning of the phrase, "donkey punch"... so I guess a suggestion like this isn't totally outside the realm of possibility.

On a side note, since I am working out anyway, I decided to give weight loss a try (just to make it challenging). I've lost a few pounds. Nothing to make a big deal about and certainly nothing to religiously keep you updated on either.

You're welcome.

Truth be told, I've been apprehensive about losing weight. I have two working theories right now that against my losing weight:

1. Ever notice how people who have lost weight look like their heads got bigger? I know it's just that the rest of your body gets smaller while the head didn't have a lot in the way of fat storage to begin with but I don't want to look like my head got bigger.
2. If I'm this awesome when I'm overweight, then losing weight will release my true power and trigger a series of events that end up with me saving the world. That sounds like a lot of work, if you ask me.

All that aside, losing weight seems to be an unwanted side effect of consistent gym attendance and participation so I may have a pornstar physique someday soon after all. Maybe it's not too late to consider possible career options.

Carnival Weekend Burn.

Carnival here in T&T recently happened. It was on February 16th and 17th to be exact. Like most years, I ignored it. Except for that one year while working at The Paper, I have had no reason to go out on Carnival Monday and Tuesday. I'm lucky I'm not one of those who look forward to this every year because, this year, would have totally sucked for me since I was forced to spend the entire long weekend laid up with a second-degree burn injury.

Actually, yeah, that still pretty much sucked.

It all started the Friday before the long weekend, or "Fantastic Friday" as it's come to be known. Mrs C and I were getting ready for work and, as I do every year, I was looking forward to getting a long weekend of rest and relaxation while most everyone else would parading through the streets in feathers and sequined bikinis. As an added bonus, because most people couldn't wait to get the partying, a lot of workplaces - my own included - were shutting it down early that day.

We were tired. We had not been getting to bed as early as we should have for the past few days and, as a result of that, Mrs C lost control of a pot of boiling-hot and spilled some of it on me.

I know! Ouch doesn't even come close.

Not to brag but I'm normally the "just walk it off" kind of guy when it comes to pain. I owe that to the years of training I received at Masochists' Gym. But this one hurt. I knew it was bad because it was the type of pain I couldn't ignore. Still I handled it pretty well...

You should have seen me! I knew it was bad and I still handled it like a boss. I went into the bedroom to check it out in the mirror. The hot water went right through the fabric of what I was wearing and burned what looked like about two inches of skin off (I found out later it was closer to six inches when the rest of the damage started to show).

Sorry if that's too TMI.

Did I cry? No! Did I panic? Nuh-uh! Instead I was the one who stopped and consoled Mrs C, who started crying after she realized what she'd done. Dammit, I even finished getting dressed and went off to work after applying some basic first aid. ON MYSELF! I was so cool.

There was only one thing... ONE THING that took away from my absolute awesomeness in this story. You see, what actually happened was that Mrs C had, in fact spilled the boiling-hot water... on my ass.

Yeah...

"Only you could find a joke in all this." Mrs C said when I mentioned her failure to choose a more convenient location to injure me.

It's funny how it's not as much fun to lie around and do next to nothing on a long weekend when you're actually forced to do it. I spent the entire four-day weekend lying on my stomach and the first half of that time I had to be (literally) butt-naked until the-um-wound was healed properly. If I could have done that without the benefit of getting burned that might have probably been my idea of a perfect weekend.

On a side note, while I'm not one of those guys who believes that women are evil mean and secretly reveling in the pain and suffering of their male oppressors, I could not help but notice the marked increase of Mrs C's uncontrollable urge to slap me on the behind during my recovery. Maybe someone could explain that one for me.

Social Interaction - Do We Need To Talk?

One day, while having lunch in a crowded food court in a shopping mall close to where I work:

Some Guy (SG): Anyone sitting here?

Me (Me): Nope.

SG: You mind?

Me: No problem. Go ahead.

SG: Thanks... I’m not bothering you, am I?

Me: Nah, It’s cool.

I go back to eating while I check some messages on my phone. After a few seconds...

SG: Short week this week, huh?

(NOTE: There were two holidays during that week.)

Me: Uh? Um... yeah.

SG: Yeah... I think they sold me stale peanuts downstairs.

Me: (*Thinking*: Who comes to a food court to eat peanuts?) Hmm...

SG: *Continues eating suspect peanuts.*

Me: *Continues stating at phone.*

SG: ... It’s hot...

Did he take my confirmation that he wasn't bothering as a challenge?!

A Little 'O This & A Little 'O That.

It would seem, for all intents and purposes, I'm back. I passed on my sport assignment to my lecturer and, until he provides me with feedback, I'm a free man again.

During my time away, there have been a few things that have been going on. Nothing too major. Just the usual crazy stuff to which I normally end up baring witness. Two, in particular, stood out and, instead of trying to figure out how to stretch each of them into individual posts, I decided smush them all together and hopefully come up with something worth our time together.

Ahem! I shall begin...

********

The newest addition to the C Household, our puppy, Kawaii, is a growing girl. She recently got the hang of jumping onto and off of the living room furniture all on her own (“yaaaay” he said with no real excitement whatsoever). I was there for her first successful jump. She was so excited, she had to jump off and on again four or five times to make sure it wasn't a fluke.

Now she’s got her sights trained on our bed. Of course, she’s not allowed on the bed and, added to that, it’s a bit higher than the living room couch. But she’s determined. The other day she figured she’d have better luck if she took a running start (EDITOR'S NOTE: she’s a little too smart for her own good). She had the right idea but because of the limited space in the bedroom, she had to run in from another room at a parallel angle to the bed.

As you can see, essentially she was trying to pull off one of those high jumps you often see done in track and field events.

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Unfortunately, despite her planning and effort, it was obvious that she lacked natural grace and skill necessary to perform such a feat and she completely fell short of her goal. Both height and direction were a bit off.

I was there for that one too, just lying in bed, minding my own business when I heard feet thumping on the wooden floors as she came running up. Then, I saw the brown blur that was the top of her head. Our gaze met for a moment as she passed by and then... she was gone. Soon after came the sound of her sliding on said floor and crashing into the wardrobe.

It was as a result of that one act that I knew she was indeed a worthy member of this family.

********

You know those moments when you question whether mankind is really worth saving? I had another one of those recently.

It was morning. An average day, like any other. I was walking through the city, on my way to work. My headphones were on, the music just loud enough to drown out the world around me. That was normal. I was late but this was also normal. Indeed, it was just an average day, just like any other day.

That's when I happened to notice the guy in front of me had his boxers sticking out of his sagging jeans. Not that this is anything new. You know how I feel about trends but this one in particular has been going strong for decades. Personally, I think it's stupid but my complaining about it won’t change it. Instead, I try not to pay attention to it.

I probably would have dismissed him too except I happened to notice he wasn't just letting his boxers stick out of his jeans. His boxers were actually sticking out of another pair of boxers that were sticking out of his jeans. I could tell! They were different colors!

Is this the new "thing"? Is this what all the kids are doing now? I can't keep up anymore.

The icing on this double-boxer cake was that this guy was actually making an effort to show it off – as evident by him having tucked the back of his t-shirt into the upper boxer. Also, he was strutting. He was actually proud!

I briefly considered turning around and going home because, at that point, I had had enough of outside for the day.

********

To end things off, here are some blog posts I considered writing but decided against it when I realized the titles were only mildly more interesting than the actual posts themselves:

Of Mouse & Man - One man’s harrowing battle to blog and surf the internet while being hampered by a defective peripheral device.

My Application Letter to The X-Men - After getting caught in the rain four times in five days with not so much as a sniffle, I become convinced that I possess some sort of superhuman power.

My Application Letter to The Avengers - In case the X-Men aren’t hiring right now.

The Great Flood of 2014 - The time when Mrs C broke a pipe in the bathroom and all the hardware stores were closed for the evening.

A Little 'O This & A Little 'O That - Where I regale you with- Oh, wait, I wrote that one...

If We Were Friends.

So... It Turns Out I Might Be A Masochist.

I suppose, if you've been hanging around here long enough, eventually seeing a post with a title like the one above won't really come as a shock. In fact, a few of you may think my admission of something like this is long overdue. Unfortunately, you're going to have to wait a little longer for me to admit to my twisted sexual tastes. I guess you'll just have to use your imaginations. Actually, don't. Forget I said that. I've hung around some of your places a while too and I'd rather not be a part of some of your own twisted imaginations.

Well... maybe a few of you...

My confession is nowhere as interesting as the post would lead you believe (no shocker there). Truth is, I'm hoping by the time you got to this part and realized this post contains no stories of whips, ball-gags and leather unitards, you'll decide to continue reading just out of the sheer principle of finishing something you've already started.

Which would probably make some of you the real masochists here.

Anyway, I digress (no shocker there either). One of the updates I neglected to pass on is that I restarted the gym a few months back.

I know, right?! How could I leave something like that out?

But not just any gym, mind you. The gym. The place where I first started learning Thai boxing back in secondary school.

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The place I've tried to make time to rejoin but made every excuse not to could never get the timing right to get back into it. This is the gym where I was so pushed to my limits, physically, I likened the instructor's training technique to sadomasochism.

And now the title makes sense.

Of course, there have been some changes to the old place, over the years. New students, new equipment, bigger training area and all that. But, at it's core, it's still the same old place where you train hard and develop an unnatural affection for pain... and the guy in charge likes to occasionally sneak up behind you, flip you and send you flying through the air, just for the heck of it. I'm already getting back to my old form and keeping up with guys more than half my age... realizing there are now students there more than half my age training there now... feeling a little bummed by this fact...

Still, I am keeping up with them so I guess that counts for something. Plus, one time, one of the guys saw me practicing my kicks on the bag and insisted he be allowed to wear extra padding when he was told to spar with me. I've always wondered what it's like to be feared.

I like it.

This bag is actually the oldest one there. He keeps it far in the back where I have plenty of "alone time" with it.
I swear it looked like that before I got there. Honest!

All that being said. I have been reintroduced to the pain I had long forgotten. The first few weeks especially were rough and I spent a lot of time trying not to move very much. But... I kept going back... I keep going back! It's almost as if I enjoy this violent abuse being inflicted upon my body. I-I'm allowing people to hit me and they let me hit them back.

And I like it...

Maybe the title of this post is more appropriate than I thought. Come to think of it, I do get this special feeling of power when I strap on my leather training gloves.

By the way, if you're worrying about me regaling you with constant gym pics and posts, don't expect much more than this post. I did wait five months to actually let you all know I was back there to begin with so I think you don't need to worry.

Social Interaction - Quiet Vinny.

I recently figured out one of my main problems. No, not that one! The other one of my main problems. Nooo... Not that either- Wait! I do that? Okay! Let's not get off track here. Just stop listing them for a sec and pay attention. I'm referring to the issue I have when it comes to talking to people.

Despite the amount of words I've put down here on the blog, I forever remain a crappy conversationalist. Fact is, if you met me and we had to have a face-to-face conversation it would probably be a painful experience for all involved. I like to think it's because I'm not a people person. I think I mentioned that a few times in the past. I'm awkward when it comes to communicating verbally. Not because I can't think of what to say but because, whenever someone talks to me, a million thoughts about possible responses swirl around in my head and I get confused. This leads to such gems as saying the wrong thing, not getting the words out properly and – my all-time specialty – talking too fast.

I've thought of ways to fix this but nothing has ever really worked. Friendly and polite have always been my “go-to” states. These, however, are not natural for me. Growing up, I had to work at it. I decided that the mannerisms of a friendly person were what people considered acceptable so I just went with it. (Because what else does an eight-year-old think about?)

After I left the bank, where being fake-friendly was an actual job requirement, I'd gotten my fill of it. I decided to let more of my cynical, dry wit out and it worked pretty well... That is, until the new super-religious supervisor at my next place of employment thought these traits were undesirable of someone working under her and set out to have me removed (I'll mention again that I was never cynical to her). I didn't want to be fake-nice but after that experience I was convinced my initial theory was correct. As a result of all this I'd resigned myself to my awkwardness.

Until recently, that is. See, recently it occurred to me that I was looking at the problem all wrong. I don't always have to have something friendly to say or even something witty. I don't need to improve my conversation skills. I need to do away with them altogether. Well, mostly.

Stay with me here.

You know those guys who keep to themselves, looking all serious and deep in thought and badass. They usually don't say much aside from the odd grunt or one-word response. That's me! I could totally do that! I mean, I already do it sometimes. What I need to do is step it up and be the quiet badass all the time. No one expects the quiet badass to say much. No one expects the quiet badass to smile and feign politeness. The badass does not need to try to be the life of the party.

Have you ever heard of Batman telling jokes during the Justice League weekend barbecues over at Superman's fortress? No! Batman is the one silently examining the pent-up alien beasts in Superman's zoo, figuring out at least eight different ways to subdue and recapture them should they ever escape. No one ever says, “Hey, Bats! Tell everyone about that time you...” No! They all take a vote as to who will approach him to ask if he wants a beer and pray he doesn't karate-chop the unlucky sap through a wall for sneaking up on him too quietly.

I could totally be Batman!

I wish I'd figured this out before! So many wasted years trying to be “social” and “friendly” and none of that was ever truly in my nature. Sure, I'm a nice guy and I'm not denying that, but that doesn't mean I want to talk to you. I honestly don't want to participate in a verbal discourse on how hot it is today. No, I do not care to elaborate on what I meant by “Meh,” when you asked me how my day was going.

Of course, it doesn't help that whenever I don't feel like communicating someone is always there to chime in with a, “Hey, Vinny. You okay? You seem quiet today.” I hate that! Thanks for the concern and all but I just don't feel like talking. That's all! That's it! I'm not upset, I don't need to open up and I don't have a problem I need to get off my chest. Yes, I am sure. I just want to be quiet. It's nice. I like it.

Jeez! It's like society is forcing me comply with their mass-produced standards of social interaction. But I ain't your robot, man! I'm totally not going to dance to your little tune while you pull the strings on my cheeks to make me smile so you can feel comfortable. And I sure as hell ain't going to conform to your fascist rules about mixing metaphors... Man!

Imagine the freedom. I'd never have to fumble for words again. Even better I won't have to pretend to be extra nice and smile just to make others more relaxed. I can finally be the badass I was meant to be!

Now all I need is to get people to stop bothering me. Karate-chopping someone through a wall might seem a bit extreme but I'm fairly certain it'll get the point across.

Social Interaction - Gimme Five!

On my list of many social interaction issues, physical contact is definitely in the top three. It would be right up there with talking to people and any form of interaction with random strangers or people I haven’t seen in a long time.

I’m not a hugger. I’ve said that many times. My wife gets away with hugging me, mostly because she lets me have sex with her (it seems like a fair trade). The same goes for kissing. Again, Mrs. C gets a pass (also because of the sex) but anyone else, not so much. I have aunts who always like to greet with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, which is why I try to avoid them whenever possible.

What’s weird is I always seem to notice when someone makes deliberate, physical contact with me. Someone putting his/her hand on my shoulder, for example, immediately sets off all kinds of alarms in my head and I spend the rest of the interaction trying not to tense-up and acting like I don’t even notice. You know? Like any normal person is supposed to do.

However, much to my dismay, people are always trying to touch me. I think my overall unease with physical contact is belied by my seemingly approachable demeanor. (DAMN MY FRIENDLY FACE!!!) Just a few days ago, I was showing some students in one of my classes the video quality on my phone when the woman to my right put her arm around my back, while the one on the other side pressed her boobs into my shoulder so she could get in closer to see the screen. During all this, I was doing my best not to tense up.

It wasn’t pretty.

This is just one more reason I love Japan so much. In one of my classes I learned that a lot, like, A LOT of cultures employ handshakes and even kisses – to various degrees – as their greeting of choice. Not Japan, though. You stay at a safe distance from the person you’re meeting and bow. There’s no touching and personal boundaries are respected.

It’s perfect!

Hugging and kissing people is bad enough but what I find I have a lot of issues with is the whole act of “giving” someone “five”.

I know. I know.  It’s just a quick slap of someone else’s palm that lasts less than a second and, as such, should be the least invasive form of physical contact. Right? Well, have you ever thought of the mechanics involved with giving five to someone? I have. I overthink the process every time I placed in a position where a “five” must be bestowed.

Every. single. time.

When someone extends his/her palm towards me I immediately begin to second guess my actions My thoughts in the split-second before I act flow something like this:

Dammit! He just reached out his hand. Is he looking for a handshake? What were we just talking about? I made a joke and he thought it was funny and apparently well suited to the situation. A handshake is probably too formal for this scenario.

So it’s a five then?

Simple enough. Just a quick slap of his palm and that should seal the deal. A quick slap contact shouldn't be more than a second or else things could get weird.

How hard should slap his hand?

Hmm... I remember reading that guys often use these forms of social interaction amongst each other as an opportunity to display his physical strength. One good, hard slap should do.

But what if I hit his hand too hard? What if I focus too much on power and lose accuracy in the process? It would probably be awkward if I miss his hand altogether and swat at thin air.

Should I look at his hand when I give him the five? That will help with my aim. Do people look at each other’s hands when doing this?!

Okay, I won’t look at his hand. I’ll give a moderate slap so I can make sure my aim is good.

It can’t be too soft, though. That would be weird. Plus, he might form doubts about my masculinity.

I need to angle my wrist properly too. Otherwise, I’ll just end up hitting his hand wrong and not making the proper “slapping” sensation. I’m sure I’ll lose points if I connect with the heel of my palm or, even worse, karate-chop his hand.

Okay, this is taking long. I'll just do it and get it over with…

DAMMIT, I missed!

See? It’s not as easy as you may think. This is why I prefer a fistbump (of a “bounce”, as we call them here). Those are easy. You see someone extend a fist, all you have to do is touch that fist with your fist. The. end. About the only time things go off track is when the other person decides to add that sudden wide-spread palm while making an explosion sound-effect right after the bump.

I don’t like those people.

Fortunately, most tend to stay away from that maneuver.

Aside from that, all you have to worry about with a bounce is getting the aim right which, I must admit, I don’t always nail with 100% accuracy.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Tales From Japan - Death & The Hermit.

I'm not a people person. I know. I've only said that like a few (hundred) times before. I avoid people and I'm terrible at conversations. If someone starts up a conversation with me from completely out of the blue and I'm not prepared, it’s usually ends up being a disaster of epic proportions.

Still, as bad as I am with the whole social interaction thing, I'm way below the level of calling myself a hikikomori. That’s a Japanese word. (You didn't think I forgot about the folks over in Japan, did you?) Hikikomori are basically shut-ins who either won't or can't participate in social settings and, as a result, often spend all of their time locked up inside their own homes avoiding as many people as they can. They can't work, date or even have friends. Their parents are usually their only means of support and human contact.

Is it weird I actually don’t find most of this all that bad?

Anyway, there are a growing number of people suffering from this condition in Japan and cultural pressures and other stresses are usually the triggers for someone to slip into hikikomori lifestyle.

One example of just how severe a hikikomori's fear of social interaction can be is a recent story I read here about an unemployed, 34-year-old, male hikikomori who shared an apartment in Tokyo with his 68-year-old father, Mr. Nakao. Their living together was on account of Nakao's poor health.

Then, on December 1, the son woke up to find that his father had died. Naturally, the authorities had to be notified but the young man's fear of having to make contact with the outside world was so severe that he actually hesitated a little before contacting the police.

For TWELVE days!

It doesn't end there.

Another thing you may or may not know about Japan is that housing in urban areas, such as Tokyo, is scarce and tightly packed. A very common living arrangement for people in these areas to stay in one-room apartments that act as kitchen, bedroom, living room and dining room. Only the bathroom is walled off. This was the living arrangement Nakao and his son shared. So, for twelve days, the young man stayed locked in his one-room apartment, with his father’s corpse lying on the Japanese-style beds (probably one of those floor-mat deals that's spread out in the middle of the room), while he ate, slept, watched TV, etc.

He eventually did sum up the courage to call the police and, explained that his condition was the reason he took so long to do so. While the police are looking into the cause of Nakao's death, they’re also considering charging the son for “abandonment of a body”.

On second thought, as socially awkward as I am, I think I’ll stick with awkward situations in public.

No Sweat.

Dear Sweat Glands,

We've been together a long time. All my life, in fact. That's a long time. I had hoped that, one day, we'd have come to a mutual understanding that would allow us to function together with minimal conflict. Unfortunately this has not been the case. During our time together you have caused me nothing but embarrassment.

While it may be of no concern to you, having to spend the first half hour of my mornings in the office men's room, "toweling" off with handfuls of paper towels is not how I would prefer to begin each workday. Even after that, the telltale pools of sweat on my shirt remain for some time after I am forced to admit defeat and proceed to my desk.

You provide a necessary function, the primary of which is to prevent my body from overheating if I have to exert myself while performing my day-to-day activities. However, I feel you can be a bit overzealous of the performance of your duty, since very little exertion is required on my part for you to spring into action. And when you do spring into action, it cannot be said that you do not give it your full effort. While this level of performance is admirable in most other fields, it is not a necessary nor appreciated effort from you. I think you should ease on the pace a bit.

I know there are issues that make your job harder. For one, we live in the tropics. I know. It's hot. I cannot help this fact. But we were born here and have always lived here, so I don't understand why you are not more used to the conditions. As such, I fail to see why you would think the heat is a good excuse for you to act up the way you do.

You should know that I don't like exerting myself. This is mostly because of you and your zeal, since I actually consider myself an active person. Unfortunately, having to exert myself can't always be helped, so if I have to walk a little faster, or choose the first form of transportation - even if it isn't air conditioned - I would like to think that you would be understanding about this. But let's be honest with each other, this isn't the case, is it?

There is also the fact that I am somewhat overweight. I accept the blame for this but, again, this is something that you should be used to, since, with the exception of a few short years during my late teens, I have always been overweight. Still, this is something I can fix and have been working on. In truth, we can both agree that my weight issue has improved significantly in recent years, so while you get some leeway for this, it isn't much.

Through all this I cannot help but notice that the vast majority of individuals I encounter every day are not usually afflicted in the same way. Overweight people, people who are in a hurry, people who take public transportation or any combination of these. Not to mention that, like me, all of these people I meet live here in the tropics and have to endure the climate. This leads me to believe that the problem lies in your aforementioned overzealousness.

Is it personal? Have I wronged you in some way that has prompted you to be my lifelong enemy? Or are you just an asshole? Whatever your motivations may be, know now that I am hereby putting you on notice. I am in a new setting, among new people and I will not be the "sweaty guy" here too. This is why I have chosen to write to you today. I am no longer willing to be a hapless victim of your tireless assault. Know that, no matter how long it takes, no matter what steps I have to take, I will find a way to end your reign of terror.

Getting real tired of your shit,

Vinny.

My Brain Can't Ever Be Left Unsupervised.

Sunday morning I was lying in bed, trying to force myself to go back to sleep, I hate getting up too early on a weekend and since I had no intention of getting up before at least Monday I decided I’d just lie there until sleep came back.

That has to work sometimes right?

Anyway, I was lying there and I decided to let my brain go on ahead and do whatever it wanted without me in the hope that it would be too distracted to notice when sleep crept back in. I tried not to focus on any kind of actual thought so it would get all excited and start thinking. Brains are like that. They always want to think at inappropriate times like when you’re trying to go to sleep. But it was during this time of letting my brain get distracted with all kinds of random thoughts, that this thought in particular suddenly happened.

“I bet I could totally kill a chicken!”

Yeah...

With that, my brain had something to latch on to and all hopes of sleep were gone.

Before you start wondering, there was an actal train of thought that led me to this statement. It’s not like I lie awake, thinking of who or what I’d be able to kill.

Beat up, maybe, but not kill.

Of course, even I had to retrace my brain’s steps to figure out where this thought in particular came from, since I wasn’t really paying attention to what it was doing. When I was able to get to the original thought that set this train in motion, it all made perfect sense.

“It’s all the internet’s fault I don’t get enough sleep.”

See? That makes things a whole lot clearer now, doesn’t it? If you’re not following (and I don’t see how you couldn’t be) I’ll break it down for you. It’s like this:

To date, the internet as we all know, is one of the greatest advances in technology known to man. I dare say it ranks right up there with double-sided tape and the Japanese Butter Stick.

The internet is also the greatest distraction known to man. One of my lecturers even said that the internet is also guilty of diminishing the attention span of today’s society. At least, I think that’s what he said. The dude was going on and on and I was starting to get bored. He really needs to learn how to take his rants down to 140 characters or less.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Chickens!

See, with the internet being the distraction it is, I more often than not, find myself choosing stay awake just a little bit longer so I can keep up with all the fun distractions the worldwide web has to offer. When I end up exhausted as a result, I sometimes wonder what the world would be like, not just without it, but without all the other newfangled doodads we have and the entire way of life to which we’ve grown accustomed.

I'd imagine there was some kind of apocalyptic event which would basically send us all back to the stone-age, technology wise. There’d be no more smartphones, or television, or any other of the modern conveniences and we didn’t have a choice but to actually “go outside” and “do things”. Of course, there’d be no fast food restaurants or convenience stores either, so finding food would require actually finding your own food... and possibly killing it and cooking it all on your own too.

This is where the chickens would come in. I figured at least a few of them would probably survive the apocalypse and unless there was some kind of radioactive mutation issue and chickens became vicious, man-eating beasts, I think  those would be easy enough to take on.

Or not...

Of course, I went on to formulating the proper technique for getting the job done with minimal blood spatter and creepy headless panicked bird running around. Then I thought about what the best way would be to get all the feathers off. I wasn’t sure, but figure I’d better look that up before the apocalypse took Google away.

That's how I came to the conclusion that I totally could do if I had to. I just need the circumstances to be just right for me to rise to the occassion.

More Disturbing Patterns.

If you've been keeping up with what I've been up to on Sprocket Ink, you'll see my last few posts all seemed to be part of a particular theme. A disturbing theme. Without planning it, both my posts last week focused on specific areas of the human anatomy. The naughty areas.

Oh, no, you didn't!
source

First, on Tuesday, I wrote about a guy born without a penis, who still managed to be a ladies' man. Then, my post on Friday was about several Japanese studies all pointing to there being benefits to women not wearing bras and how Japanese women were already adopting the habit.

Then there's my post today...

There are only two areas yet I haven't covered (or uncovered, as the case may be) and let's just say today's story isn't about butts.

You do the math.

This has happened before, but I swear it's totally unintentional (which is what the Japanese guys claimed in today's post, actually). Today's story is about a pastry product that's raising more than a few eyebrows in Japan. Yeah, I know. It's got even them shocked. But be warned, this particular baked good may cause you to lose your appetite.

Crazy People Seem Drawn to Me.

Last night I was out on the corner waiting for my wife to get home. Since they don't clash with the days I have school, I normally wait for her like this on the two nights of her own classes, so I can walk her in and help her with her heavy bag full of law books. I’ve even stopped complaining about having to do it for several weeks now. I know… I know… I’m an awesome husband. No need to make a big deal about it.

Anyway, like I said, I was waiting on the corner, playing some bejeweled on my phone when, from the corner of my eye, I noticed some guy walking past. I wasn’t too concerned, but with the amount of cell phone snatch-and-run thefts we’ve been having these days, it never hurts to be careful. I took quick glance and, by all appearances, he just seemed a normal-looking guy on his way home from work. With that, I went back to what I was doing. I decided he wasn’t anyone I needed to concern myself with.

Or so I thought…

When he was close enough to me he suddenly stopped, “Big man (a common way one guy addresses another here), that Blueberry (what he actually called it) could tell me where I living?”

Now when faced with a situation like this I have a tendency to act as if the crazy is totally normal, so as not to agitate the crazy person. I politely nodded and said, “Nope.”

“No? What the fuuu-?!” He never finished the word. He just continued on his way, muttering something that was indiscernible to me.

I watched as he crossed the street and slapped a street sign as he went his way. I put my phone away after that. I didn’t feel like playing anymore.

Was he drunk? I can't say I noticed the scent of any alcohol. This leads me to believe he was just plain nuts, which makes sense since it’s like I’m a magnet for crazy.

I hope he found his way home, though.