Mind/body/spirit date night

Saturday seemed like it was going to be like any other day...

Endo-san ran the aikido class last night, as he's wont to do when Sensei can't come. Usually I don't enjoy it. He seems to cobble techniques together from an external source like a book or video, and doesn't really demonstrate well, often changing something midstream. The techniques are usually complicated and somewhat dangerous, so I always refer to his stuff as "Endo-san's flying circus." Last night was good fun, the techniques more familiar and with lots of falls. I was in good spirits, really enjoying being thwacked on the mat, and camping it up when thrown by the kids. After this year's incredibly long winter, it feels good to sweat again.

Last night I also started Chinese lessons again. I've been away about 15 months, since Dr. Wang (isn't that a great Kung Fu villian name?) went back to Beijing. I turned out to be the only student in a group lesson, which gave me time to get to know my new teacher. I asked the same kinds of questions as when I get a prospective student, so that was kinda weird. I momentarily forgot which side of the table I was sitting. I must be insane to start new lessons now, this week when my yoga studio finally opens.

Afterward, I went over to Michael's birthday party. In attendance were the usual suspects. I arrived 3 hours late, so everyone was well lubricated. The presenting of the cake ritual called an end to the BBQ festivities. Inside the house, the magic began. Our choice of weapons being two guitars, a slide guitar (with Corona bottle), bass, small djembe, and a child's toy piano (Baby baby grand. Red. With hearts.) Plus Cian's vocal yawps. On each song we'd exchange instruments like we were Phish or something. (Man, great fun can be had with the words "Phish" and "Japan.") As the moon gradually poked it's head over the house to see what was going on, and the wine bottles became lighter, the playing got looser, unravelling into more private self-indugent noodling. People began to disappear to their neutral sleeping corners. I pedalled home, cutting the warm wind with my face, nose ever pointed toward bed...

Oh! I saw it! I figured out that the Michael Caine/Mini film is called The Italian Job. Brilliant! Cheesy Quincy Jones score, car stunts, rampant sexist dialogue, film credit for "Mr. Caine's suits" , and Benny Hill. Yakkity Sax was sadly absent. I realize also that this is my second Caine post in a week but I feel fairly confident that the name won't appear again.

Fun Fact!
Did you know that if you stacked all the film cans of all the movies that Caine ever made, it would stretch from here to Venus? (After all, that's where John Grey says women are from. Oh, behave!)


On the turntable: John Fahey, "Anthology"