Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Okay, so I'm on my way into work, and I stop off at this gas station to get an Arizona Diet Green Tea with Ginseng. It's balls-freeze-degrees here in Asheville this morning, so I'm sporting my Gracie Jiu-jitsu pull over. I'm making mention of that because parked outside of the convenient store is a big green van PLASTERED with advertisements for Master Jeon's World Martial Arts.

(They have after school pickup for kids of all ages).

"Holy fucking shit!" I said, offending a nearby woman who was likewise walking into the store.

The reason I was so surprised is because I'd forgotten all about "Master" Jeon. I'd actually attended two of his classes back in 1999 when I first came to Asheville, and that's totally relevant because lately I've been catching hell about badmouthing Tae Kwon Do.

People keep emailing me and telling me to shut up about Tae Kwon Do because I've never taken it, and thus, I don't know what I'm talking about. Wrong, bitches! I HAVE taken Tae Kwon Do, although I only remembered it this morning.

Like I said, back in '99 I was doing my usual perusal of the local martial arts schools, (going around talking to different instructors, watching classes, working out when they'd let me), when I came across Master Jeon's World Martial Arts. What caught my attention was the sign outside that said they taught kickboxing, (in addition to Tae Kwon Do, Judo, Self Defense, and Tai Chi). To my knowledge, nobody else was teaching actual kickboxing in Asheville at the time except for my instructor, [Super Asskicker], so I was immediately intrigued.

I go in to find the school empty except for this tall, good looking brunette dressed in a white gi with a red belt, (I think red belts are pretty high up in Tae Kwon Do). It was nighttime, and I'd apparently just missed the last class of the day. This girl, who we'll call "Harlot" for reasons I'll explain later, was lithe and graceful and actually projected the confidence of someone who could whip some ass.

I fell in love with her on the spot.

So I explain that I'm new in town, and that I'm looking for a place to train, and she comes right back with, "Well, in my opinion, Master Jeon is undoubtedly the best martial artist around here!"

"Really?" I reply, "Who else have you trained with?"

"Uh, well, nobody... But Master Jeon is really good!"

* ding * ding * ding * We have a winner!!! First prize is a steaming bucket of HORSESHIT!!!

Normally, I would've verbally colon-raped Harlot for making such an asinine statement, but I loved her, and I couldn't bring myself to belittle the woman I would someday marry.

Though it shames me to this day, I stood there and allowed her to say all kinds of equally retarded stuff, smiling and nodding as she made outlandish claims about her instructor's abilities.

For example, when I asked her what kind of "kickboxing" they did (Muay Thai or American) she said they really didn't do kickboxing, and the only reason it was up on the sign was because it was a term the average American could relate to. Apparently, Master Jeon didn't think any of us stupid round-eyes had ever heard of Tae Kwon Do, so he just called it kickboxing.

It was torture, and so I distracted myself by subtly looking her over, my eyes roaming from point to point to memorize every detail. The way her long, curly brown hair cascaded down her shoulders. The way one of her sparkling hazel eyes was ever so slightly larger than the other. The way her perky round breasts pushed defiantly against the fabric of her gi top.

She really was a splendid specimen, even with a single bead of post-workout sweat running down her angular jaw, her moist Adam's apple glistening beneath the halogen lights above.

Adam's apple?!? Oh no... It can't be! HARLOT'S A MAN!!!!

"NOOO!!!" I screamed, my leading straight punch shooting out before I could stop it. BAM!!! The man-bitch goes down, and I run away in terror, the theme from The Crying Game playing in my head.

Okay, okay, that didn't really happen, but, as I was sitting here writing this up, that scene flashed in my head. Man, I might genuinely be insane.

So the crisp of my meeting with Harlot was that she invited me to come back the next day to meet Master Jeon and attend a class, and I agreed. I'd also like to add that she and I were doing some MAD flirting back and forth, and there was no doubt in my mind that I was going to hook up with this girl sooner or later, (I prefer sooner).

I go back the next day in full Zen master attire, decked to the nines in my thick as shit jiu-jitsu gi, (which I NEVER get to wear), and my old Shotokan black belt. I did this partly to look cool, and partly because I didn't want anybody mistaking me for a beginner. I HATE that this is true, but a black belt gets respect in traditional schools.

(And now, I must vomit).

So a beginner class full of kids is going on, and I immediately realize that this school is a fully functioning crap factory. The instructor is, like, fifteen years old, and he's all jazzed up about being there, leading the two dozen or so youngsters in moving motivational hymns like, "Where there's a will?" and they answer, "THERE'S A WAY!!!" or, "What can we do?" and they answer, "ANYTHING WE SET OUR MINDS TO!!!"

Never mind that the kids were doing all kinds of fucked up punches and kicks, and their virtually unsupervised training was instilling massive amounts of neural habit that it would take years to unlearn once they became adults and realized you can't kick with the tips of your toes.

I guess as long as they have enthusiasm, everything is hunkey dorey.

Have you shit your pants yet? Yeah, well, I almost did.

It's at this point that a bright-eyed young man comes trotting over with his hand extended. We'll call him "Patches" because he had WTF tournament patches all over his gi, and his black belt had his real name, (which I can't remember), embroidered along one of the ends in gold thread.

(By the way, though I rarely wear a uniform, neither my belt, nor my gi, have any adornment of any kind. People, if you're gonna train with a uniform on, don't fuck it up by putting patches and shit all over it. Don't be THAT guy! Don't be a walking advertisement. You think they did that crap in the olden days? Hell no!)

"Hi, I'm Sensei Patches. Can I help you?"

"Mike Descado," I reply, shaking his hand and smiling warmly, "I'm here to see Master Jeon."

Now even though I was genuinely trying to be nice and respectful, I accidentally put a half-laugh/half-cough inflection on the word "Master" when I said, "I'm here to see Master Jeon."

Apparently, my smartassedness operates on a level beyond my conscious control.

"Oh, sure, sure!" Patches chimes, "Mike Descado... Master Jeon had you down for noon, but I think he can see you now."

(The clock on the wall read one o'clock. Was I late? Uh, FUCK no?!? Harlot had told me one thing, and Master * cough * Jeon another. BITCH!!! I mean, I'm sorry. I love you Harlot. CALL ME!!!)

Covering my nuts to prevent a stray kick from decimating my scrotum, (seriously, those little fuckers were all over the place! It was like a clubbing gauntlet for your testicles), I follow Sensei Patches through the barrage of shouting ten-years-olds and over to a small office across the room.

Master Jeon is sitting at a cluttered desk, and as Patches introduces us, he stands to shake my hand. The guy is Korean and about my height, (5'9"), with black, bowl cut hair. His "Engrish" is broken but discernable, and he- like everyone I've met so far- is very, very friendly.

A little too friendly... Hmmm... (insert foreshadowing here)

We sit down, and the first thing Master Jeon wants to know is what I have a black belt in. I tell him Shotokan, but intentionally leave out the fact that I hadn't done actual karate in about five years, and that I was a weapon of mass destruction, and that I eat babies, and that I throw grenades in packed kindergarten classes.

We chat back and forth, and it soon becomes apparent that Master Jeon is your typical Tae Kwon Do franchise dojo owner. He's all about the bank, baby, and he's willing to do anything to get it. For example, Master Jeon is a TWELFTH degree black belt, and advertises as such.

"But Mike," you say, "there's no such thing!"

Sure there is, it just requires a little arithmetic. You see, Jeon has a 5th degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do, a 3rd degree black belt in Kendo, and a 4th degree black belt in Judo. I can't honestly say that those ranks are exactly what he claims because I just don't remember. All I know for certain is that he ADDED UP the individual ranks in three different arts to come up with him being a 12th degree black belt.

I shit you not, boys and girls.

As you can imagine, I'm having the time of my life with this guy. Watching him talk was like watching that Guy Ritchie movie with Madonna called "Swept Away". It's so incredibly terrible that you HAVE to keep watching. The semi-language barrier allowed me to throw in jokes without him realizing I was making fun of him. Like, I asked if he taught the cunnelingus throw, and I wanted to know how many vulvas he'd won. I had my arms folded so I could pull out chest hairs one by one without him seeing. Pain was the only thing that allowed me to hold my shit together, it was THAT funny!

Anyway, I'm gonna skim over the next part because it makes me look like a dumbass. Suffice to say, Master Jeon wanted my credit card so that he could set up a payment plan. I gave it to him under the expressed verbal assurance that I could cancel at anytime. Now, I had no intention of paying this used car salesman a motherfucking dime, but I could only attend the first two "free" lessons if I allowed him to set up the payment plan. Fine and dandy, except that I didn't read through the accompanying contract, and- like most gyms nowadays- I can only get out of the agreement if I move away and/or can provide proof of a change of residence.

OH NO HE DI 'INT!!!

Yes he did. But we'll get to that in a minute.

The above conversation with Master Jeon took about an hour, and out in the dojo, the "intermediate adult" class was beginning. Jeon asked if I wanted to participate, (which would count as one of my free lessons), and I told him I would.

The first part of the class was kata, which I actually got through because Tae Kwon Do katas are very similar IN PATTERN to Shotokan katas. Still, I was getting pissed because I really wanted to see these dorks in action. That's about the time they broke out the kick pads and focus mitts and x-rays.

X-rays? Yep, Master Jeon let his student hit x-rays- actual 8 x 11 inch (I'm guessing about the size) x-rays with pictures of bones and shit on 'em. The only reason I can come up with for this is that x-rays "crack" when struck. I didn't know this before because I've never had cause to strike a developed piece of film, by they make a loud and distinctive pop when you hit them.

Fair enough. So instead of pairing the class off, Master Jeon designates one individual to be the holder, and then everyone else lines up single file for their turn to kick or punch. Now, I'm a damn good kicker, but some of these combinations were ridiculous to the point of being dangerous.

Double front kick --> side kick --> jump spinning round kick --> axe kick?!?

When the hell would you ever use that? You'd have to be fighting the slowest guy in the world inside the Mire Space Station where there's no gravity... AND he'd have to be drunk!

I did have some fun with this though, thus "modifying" a few kicks so I could actually get some power. Anytime the combo called for a round kick, I unleashed the Thai, and people were starting to get freaked out about it. The first guy that held for me was the fifteen-year-old instructor from the previous kiddy class, and he promptly relinquished his duties to a guy with a little more ass on him.

Other than that, my first class was a disappointment. Harlot wasn't there, I barely broke a sweat, and I didn't get to ruff anybody up.

Ah, but there was hope on the horizon, because the following Thursday was the "advanced" class, where they focused on combining the arts of Tae Kwon Do and Judo with an emphasis on self defense. This would constitute my second and last "free" lesson.

So Thursday rolls around, and I return to the dojo to find a much swarthier group of people. Most were guys about my age, with several of them sporting black belts. The class begins with some kind of ceremonial bow in, and then we immediately pair off for self-defense tactics.

I have never been privy to a more useless assemblage of crap in all my life.

One "self defense" technique involved Guy 1 moving in with a right hand haymaker, while Guy 2 falls to one knee and stiff-arm's the lead foot of Guy 1, palm against shin. The desired effect is for the attacker to completely flip over and land on his back. You probably think I'm not describing this accurately or something, but the simple fact of the matter is that it was just that absurd.

If I was nice, then I would've played along with all the other people, dutifully flipping over into an Aikido roll. I'm not nice, so I come in, swing, and then just freeze as the guy ducks and slams his palm into my well-conditioned shin.

* DUNK! * My planted lead foot didn't even move, much less whip out from under me with sufficient force to uproot my entire body and send me hurtling into the air. I was embarrassed for my partner as he tried again and again with not even a glimmer of success in sight. When he called Master Jeon over to ask what he was doing wrong, Master Jeon gave him all kinds of pointers, but decided not to actually try it on me.

He might be a snaky little shit, but Jeon wasn't stupid.

Ironically, when it got to be my turn, I did the technique with magical flawlessness, my attacker sent ass over head by the mere act of me palm-heeling his shin as he stepped in. Did it work for me because I'm a bad motherfucker? No, it worked because my opponent had been programmed to attack, react, and respond in a very specific way.

The rest of the class went pretty much the same, but I had a blast!!! I never knew I could throw people around with so little effort. For those two hours, I WAS a ninja!!!

One other incident I wanted to mention involved Sensei Patches. The particular technique was also a defense against the right hand haymaker, except that it was even more turd-like than the "duck, then palm the shin" trick. Imagine this, some guy comes in swinging, and you counter with a textbook high block, then to grab him by the collar and pant leg of his gi. Using this unorthodox grip, you yank him forward and sideways, thus rendering him horizontal in mid-air for a half a second before he flops face first on the matt like a pancake. The technique was called, "the pancake."

This one really took the cake, and what amazed me, was that Sensei Patches had so much faith in his art and his instructor, (i.e. he'd been allowed to pull shit like this off for so long), he actually thought it was gonna work on a 205 lb guy with a wrestler's build and a low center of gravity.

So I come in and swing in the robotic fashion that is par for the course in this carnival of donkey shit, then to watch in genuine pity as Patches grabs my collar with his left hand, and the upper part of my pant leg with his right, and tries to jerk me off my feet.

Have you ever seen that trick where you yank the tablecloth out from under the plates and silverware? That's kinda what it looked like Patches was trying to do to me.

I wasn't resisting him; seriously, I was just standing there as he repeatedly yanked on my gi.

Truly, truly awful.

When it gets to be my turn, I'm a little hesitant as to how I should proceed. The cardinal rule of any throw is to close the distance between your body and your opponent's. Yet the "pancake" technique was done almost at arm's length. Well, I tried it, and presto! Patches twists, flattens, and splats.

This pissed me off.

Mike: "Hey man, you don't have to jump for me, alright? If the technique works, I should be able to do it without you playing stuntman. If it doesn't work, I'll modify it."

Patches: "What do you mean? I'm not playing stuntman. It just works better for you because you're stronger than I am."

This caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up, because Patches was telling the truth. Not the actual truth, but the truth as he saw it. He DID NOT KNOW he was helping me.

Mike: "Oh, okay. Let's do it again."

Patches swings. I block, grab his gi, flinch, and then let go completely. Can anyone guess what happened? Yep, Patches twists, flattens, and splats WITHOUT ME TOUCHING HIM!

Mike: "See what I mean? Now, just attack like you would in a real fight. Don't help me out. If the technique works, it works."

Observably confused by what had happened, (and probably thinking I had Jedi powers), Patches attacks once more. I block and try to do the technique exactly as Master Jeon had demonstrated it a minute before. Keep in mind, MY gi is a Judo / Jiu-jitsu gi, which means you can yank on that fucker all day and it's not gonna rip. But Patches was wearing a Tae Kwon Do gi, which is super thin, (and really wussy-looking when you think about it).

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPP!!!

As soon as I grab and yank, his gi shreds. You see, this time Patches was making a conscious effort not to "go along" with the technique, and since the technique itself doesn't involve leverage, I was trying to pull it off with brute strength.

The result was unimaginably embarrassing for both of us.

Sensei Patches is instantly rendered naked from the waist down as I LITERALLY rip his pants off. That was bad enough, but the guy wasn't wearing any underwear!!!

Just kidding. I didn't rip his pants off, per say. They ripped a little, as did the V-neck collar of his gi, but Patches remained fully clothed.

Wouldn't it have been cool if I DID rip his pants off though? Man, I'd have pissed myself! I'm laughing right now just from the mental image.

Okay, so I get a few more tries at this technique, but I'm not about to keep doing it as shown. Instead, he swings, I block, (with a proper COVER BLOCK, not some pussy-ass traditional high block), and then I flow into a simple, standard Judo hip toss. Short, sweet, and easy.

Nothing else eventful happened in the class itself, but there was plenty afterwards. For one, Harlot was rooting around in Master Jeon's office the whole time, (doing secretary stuff, maybe?), and I was anxious for class to be over so I could go talk to her.

Once we bow out, I'm accosted by Sensei Patches who wants me to show him the hip toss. Keep in mind, this is the FIRST THROW you learn in Judo or Jiu-jitsu, and Patches had never seen it before. Anybody else get the feeling that "Master" Jeon is lying about his 4th degree black belt in Judo?

Most of that self-defense stuff we did had nothing to do with Judo; in fact, it went against many Judo principles. My guess is that Jeon learned some, (probably not much), Hopkido, and he's passing it off as Judo.

Naughty Korean.

Now we come to the part where my heart was broken into a million pieces. Harlot comes out on the floor, so I excuse myself from teaching Judo 101 to Sensei Patches and make a b-line to intercept her.

Mike: "Hey! How come you weren't out here sweating with the rest of us?"

Harlot: (stares blankly) "Are you an instructor?"

Mike: (stares blankly back) "Naw, it's me. Mike. From Tuesday?"

Harlot: "Oh! Well, it's good to see you again. Did you have a good workout?"

NO FUCKING WAY!!! She didn't remember me. Or at least, she was pretending she didn't remember me. Keep in mind, this is Thursday, and we'd met on Tuesday night. Unless she was in a car accident where her head hit the windshield, she was yanking my chain.

I'm not saying that because I'm a conceited asshole either. We really were flirting and laughing like my penis was on her list of things to do that day. Yet now she had the demeanor of somebody who doesn't know you, but doesn't wanna hurt your feelings.

I'd entered some kind of bizarro world, and the best is yet to come.

So I stick around for another ten minutes trying to talk to Harlot, but she ain't having none of it! Her answers are short and curt, and all our previous magic is utterly gone. Confused and dejected, I walk over to the wall-mounted mirror and check my reflection for anything that might have caused a complete reversal in her personality.

Nothing... No sudden goiters, no yellow urine stains down the side of my leg, no green oozing boogers, no post-masturbatory load hanging from my ear. It was a mystery, and so it has remained.

Actually, what I suspect is that Harlot is what car salesmen call a "show piece". She might not have even trained at all. In fact, I find it rather necessary to believe that she was a heartless temptress who Jeon used to draw new male members into his TKD fold.

Or maybe I farted and didn't realize it, who knows?

I prefer the first theory, not only because it makes me look like less of a chump, but also because of the way Master Jeon acted when I subsequently went into his office, thanked him for the free lessons, and told him to go ahead and cancel my contract.

Suddenly, he didn't seem to be able to speak English.

Jeon: "Wha? Contract for year."

Mike: "No, you said Tuesday that I can cancel at anytime, and that the first two lessons are free. I've taken two lessons, and I just don't think this is for me. Sorry. Now please cancel the contract."

Jeon: "Wha? Wha? Contract for year. No cancel unless move"

Whether Master Jeon knew it or not, his rapid decline in speaking prowess, coupled with his reluctance to do what he said he was gonna do, is booking him a one way ticket to Assbeatingville where I'm the Lieutenant Mayor.

Still in my gi, (and with several of Jeon's students looking in from the dojo floor through the office window), I put my hands on his desk and lean in.

Mike: "Look man, you know what you said Tuesday night. I know what you said Tuesday night. Cancel the contract."

Jeon: (his "Engrish" steadily getting more and more broken): "Only if move! You no move! You sign!"

He is actually yelling at me now, pretending to be confused and flustered. But I wasn't buying that shit for a second, because I got the feeling this was a practiced routine, something he'd done before.

After going back and forth a few more times, I straighten up, sit down in the chair across from him, and say, "You're gonna cancel that contract. In fact, give it to me right now."

Jeon: "You sign! You sign!"

Mike: "Yes, I did, and under the assurance FROM YOU that I could cancel at anytime." he started to say something else, but I cut him off. "NO! You don't have to keep telling me I signed. I know I signed. But I'm still gonna sit right here in this chair until you bring me that contract."

Master Jeon said something in Korean, got up from his chair, and went into an adjoining room, the door slamming behind him.

So, I just sat there. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes... It wasn't bad. He had a stack of "Inside Tae Kwon Do" magazines on a table nearby, so I picked one up and started to read.

By now, most of the students had gone except for Harlot, Sensei Patches, and about three or four others. I could see them out the office window, and they were talking and whispering and looking like they didn't know what to do. Everybody in that building had heard Jeon slam the door, so they knew something was up.

According to the clock on the wall, I was in that chair for twenty-six minutes before Jeon opens the door to the adjoining room, (his personal changing room, as near as I can tell), and comes out wearing street clothes and carrying a brief case.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that I was still sitting there, and all color fled from his face.

Mike: "Did you get my contract?"

Jean: "The bank draft is already set up."

HOLY LINGUISTIC MIRACLE, BATMAN!!! His English is back to normal.

Mike: "Yeah, well, you should've just said that and saved me half an hour of reading about crescent kicks."

I get up and walk towards him, simultaneously donning my "I'm the scariest son of a bitch in the whole fucking world" face. I stop with about a foot between us- definitely not nose to nose, but just close enough to make my point.

Mike: "Tomorrow you're gonna cancel that bank draft. You know why you're gonna do that? Because you said I could cancel at anytime. Now, I'm gonna be checking my credit card statement, and if I see one charge from you, just one, I'm gonna come back here. And it won't be to sit in your office and read magazines. Are we absolutely fucking clear?"

That last and gratuitous "fucking" was the only cuss word I used during my whole tirade. He answered with a simple "yes", and I left his office. Harlot, Sensei Patches and about three other guys were all that remained of the class, and I gave a perfunctory nod to them as I walked out the door.

Did Master Jeon ever try to charge me? I don't know. I called Visa and reported my credit card stolen as soon as I got home.

In the five years I've lived in Asheville since, I've never seen any of the people I met at Master Jeon's World Martial Arts.

This morning, as I walked into the convenience store proudly displaying my Gracie Jiu-jitsu pullover, I peered around for anyone that had the "look" of a Master Jeon student, but it was mostly truckers and men in business suits.

Oh well, I'm glad I saw that van though, because it reminded me of this story. So, for all you Tae Kwon Do defenders who've been emailing me.... FUCK OFF!!!

I HAVE taken TKD! And, as I've said a million times, it's shit.