November 5th, 2004
A
couple of days ago, I was trying to consolidate the “contact lists” of all three email addresses I use right now,
(only one of which, michaeldescado@hotmail.com, is known on this site). To
do this, I sent a test email to everybody whose address I’ve saved over the years- including my own- and then hit REPLY
TO ALL so each and every one of them would be recorded on my hotmail account.
Big
mistake…
We’re
talking about hundreds of addresses here, and since I didn’t look through all of them, a few of my more conservative
acquaintances got the shock of their lives. You see, I’d forgotten that
my website address, http://michaeldescado.tripod.com, appears as the signature on any email I send from hotmail, thus, a handful
of individuals I’d been trying to protect from my history and lifestyle, now know me a lot better than they ever wanted
to.
One
of those is an Asheville-based Shaolin Kung Fu instructor named Bob Cummings, (go here to check out his site: http://www.ashevilleshaolin.com/). Bob has been letting Kyle and I rent space at his dojo to work out when we’re
not at [Super Asskicker’s], and he’s one of the most genuinely noble guys I’ve ever met.
While
his school is indeed traditional, it’s a GREAT place to train- namely because of the people. Whether by his own example, or by blind luck, Bob’s students are class acts, and they welcome not
only new practitioners, but also new ideas, with open minds and open hearts. A
great big family; that’s what this place reminds me of, the surrogate brothers and sisters as concerned with each other’s
well being and general quality of life, as they are with learning Kung Fu.
Don’t
get me wrong. The camaraderie we share at [Super Asskicker’s] is similar,
but there are only a few of us nowadays, and the combative nature of what we do often negates that “family” quality. True, [Super Asskicker] himself always spends at least a half an hour after each training
session talking and joking and debating all manner of non-martial arts things, yet, it’s just not the same.
I
envy Bob and his students. I envy the wholesome and uncompromising goodness that
permeates their gatherings. There’s nothing “good” or “wholesome”
about what we do in [Super Asskicker’s] basement. Nothing distinctly moral
or distinctly character building. We’re taught to defend ourselves. We’re taught to hurt people. That’s
it, and that’s all.
While
I admire this no-nonsense approach, (which fits my personality perfectly), I think that Spiderman’s uncle had the right
idea when he said, “With great power, comes great responsibility.”
Do
I think I have great power? Not necessarily.
But I’ve often found myself wondering why [Super Asskicker] would impart his knowledge to individuals that might
not be worthy of it.
I’ve
trained with some SERIOUSLY dangerous people in that basement- people with territorial aggression issues that make giving
them combative instruction no different than giving them a loaded gun- and sometimes I question [Super Asskicker’s]
wisdom on that account, his reasoning behind taking thugs like that under his wing.
***
…I
stopped just now. I thought about what I wrote.
I
was gonna erase the last couple of paragraphs and try again, but no, I’m gonna leave it and keep on going. After all, I have to consider the following.
For
one thing, [Super Asskicker] is so beyond the skill of his students- even Spencer, or Justin, or Kyle, or, especially, ME- that what he teaches might not be all
that big a deal to him. I could train another ten years and still not be worthy
to lick the sweat from his balls.
Secondly,
those of us who know [Super Asskicker], HAVE been changed by his tutelage… the unspoken example he sets by his actions…
the way he shares his view of the world during those post-class talks I mentioned before… the way practicality and nobility
are interchangeable with him…
Yeah,
ya know what? I’m an ungrateful prick, doubly so since I’ve only
arrived at this revelation just now. I’M
not worthy, (sayeth me, and Wayne and Garth). I’M
the arrogant drunken moron that shouldn’t have been allowed the opportunity to learn realistic melee. I mean, what the fuck makes me so different from the “thugs” I alluded to before?!?
***
Wow!!! This rant really got out of hand really quickly, and I think I need to rein things
in. The ORIGINAL point was to lead into the first and only time I got hospitalized
on account of an assbeating, and I was trying to do that by citing how Bob’s kung fu class instills a mindset of humility
that would’ve circumvented my own tragedy were I one of his present day students.
Ah,
how I do go on.
Okay,
so the yarn I’m about to spin has been a topic of much speculation within the Delta State University folklore I’m otherwise, (or perhaps, stupidly), proud
of. Most of my friends and family know I was brutally assaulted in 1995 or 1996
outside a bar in Cleveland
Mississippi, but
the details of that event have always been somewhat ambiguous because I don’t remember the actual assault. Still, I’m gonna do my best to set the record straight here, and then you can make up your own minds
whether or not I’m “worthy” of the skills and abilities I have now.
Again,
I’m pretty sure it was either 1995 or 1996, (because I recall one of my classes being “Field Zoology”, an
upper level undergraduate course), which would make me either a junior or a senior.
I was semi-dating a rather muscular cheerleader named Tracy Something-Or-Other at the time, and most of her guy friends
were among a rival fraternity at D.S.U. known as the Pikes, (keep in mind, I pledged Kappa Alpha).
While
the main drinking establishment in town- Rumors Bar and Grill- catered to both Pikes and K.A.’s, (not to mention Kappa
Sigma’s, Phi Tau’s, and all of the lesser Greek organizations), the Pikes had their own bar.
After
many, many drinks at Rumors one Saturday night, I persuaded a fraternity brother of mine, who I THINK was Shane Bullock, to
drive me up to The Channel so I could look for Tracy. Tracy and I had not been going out that long, (a week
at most), but I was just horny enough to brave the Pike hang out in my quest for sexual conquest.
Shane
and I split up as soon as we passed the bouncer; him to converse with a bar full of people that loved him, (despite his fraternal
alliance, everybody knew Shane), and me to stumble onto the dance floor to hunt down Tracy.
Like
the rest of this seedy hole-in-the-wall, said “dance floor” wasn’t that big, perhaps fifty feet by fifty
feet, but it took me a full hour to find Tracy, undoubtedly because I was so disgustingly drunk.
Since
Tracy and I were only semi-dating, she was dancing with a handsome, brown haired
Pike whose name eludes me right now, and I immediately swaggered over.
“Hey,
girl! You trying to avoid me?”
“Huh?!? Oh… Mike… What are you doing here?”
“I
wanna be like Pikes!” I sung, then shifting my attention to Tracy’s dance partner, “Who’s your friend?”
“This
is [handsome, brown haired Pike whose name eludes me right now]. Ya’ll
met at the Intramural Game last weekend, remember?”
“Nope,”
I muttered, gripping her dance partner’s offered hand hard enough to break it, “I’m Mike. How’s it hanging?”
Before
he could answer, I widened my eyes and reached out to grab him by the shoulders.
“Wait
a minute… Fuck! I DO remember
you! You’re [handsome, brown haired Pike whose name eludes me right now]!!! Dude, the bartender’s looking for ya!
Your mom called here, something about your dad having a heart attack?”
“What?!?”
the imbecile gasped, “JESUS!!!”
And
off he went, knocking indiscriminate dancers out of the way as he made a B-line for the bar proper.
Newly
versed in my sick sense of humor, Tracy huffed, spread her hands, and then barked at me over the blare of the music.
“What
the… you son of a… WHY THE HELL DID YOU SAY THAT?!?”
I
immediately swept her up by the waist and right hand, then waltzing to the hip hop/techno song assaulting from the nearby
speakers.
“Could
be true,” I shouted close to her ear, “I don’t know his father’s medical condition. Maybe I did him a favor?”
Tracy laughed helplessly before pulling
back to slap me in the face.
“Asshole!”
she said, half amused/half enraged, “You just can’t be normal, can you!
We’ve gone out three times… THREE TIMES, you conceited jerk
off! I can dance with- No, I can FUCK
whoever I want to! NEVER CALL ME AGAIN!!!”
And
then Tracy
stomped off after [handsome, brown haired Pike whose name eludes me right now].
I
was left alone within the maelstrom of base-driven music and writhing bodies, my intoxication beyond any measure of pride
or common sense.
“YOU’RE
NOT GETTING YOUR DIAPHRAM BACK!!!” I called after her, before being whirled around by a raven haired vixen I’d
never seen before. Silence followed during the interlude between the previous
song and the next, and I found myself looking into the feral black eyes of an ethic stunner we’re gonna call, “Gothic
McNiceAss.”
“Tracy likes you,” she stated, “She
told me that. But she also told me that you’re kinda weird, and that she
can’t tell if you’re trying to be funny, or drunk all the time.”
Before
I could answer, I heard, “Da Na Na Na Naaaaah… ‘All I wanna do is zooma zoom zoom… and booma boom boom… just SHAKE YA RUMP!!!’”
The
music resumed, and I found myself doing the appropriate pelvic grind with Gothic McNiceAss, all thoughts of Tracy evaporating. It was one of the strangest encounters I ever experienced, namely because- while Gothic had no sexual interest
in me, (which I was soon to discover), - she was pretty much fucking me doggy style as the song went on.
No
shit, she actually turned her back to me, put her hands on the floor, and started rubbing her ass against my crotch.
‘To Hell with Tracy!!!’ I thought, ‘THIS girl is buck MFing wild!!!’
A
second song, and then a third, and then a forth, the two of us dry humping in front of everybody. And all this was permeated by periodic shouts from Gothic about how “good” a girl Tracy was, and how I needed to be “nicer”
if I wanted to keep her, and how I shouldn’t worry about that “other guy” she’d been dancing with.
Now,
ANY heterosexual man, even one as blind stinking drunk as I was, would’ve been confused by these occasional entreaties,
and I astutely surmised that Gothic was merely trying to confirm my worth before offering her vaginal wears.
I
was wrong.
“Look,
I’m not gonna lie to you,” I lied, during yet another pause in the music, “I care about Tracy…
But, YOU! Well, you make me
tingly… And I think that tingliness is one of the most important things
a person can get outta life… Ya know, my friend Shane is in here someplace… And he has a car… Let’s bail… Let’s leave this smoke-filled din of indifferent carnal desire and get to know
each other… REALLY get to know
each other… Perhaps as these other cretins never will…”
No
kidding. That’s what I said verbatim, (yeah, like I really know), and I
accentuated my words with all the requisite facial expressions and body movements such a diatribe would demand.
Gothic
didn’t fall for it.
“What
about Tracy?”
came the response, but not quite confrontationally enough for my liquor-soaked mind to pick up on the trap.
“Tracy can suck my taint!” I chuckled,
“Who cares about her? Let’s go back to my dorm room.”
As
soon as I said it, I knew I was thwarted, ‘cause Gothic took a step back and laughed smugly if not triumphantly. The ensuing conversation went something like this:
Gothic: “You’re a pig. I knew you
didn’t care about Tracy.”
Me: “Whaaaaa?!? You’ve been trying
to hump my balls off for the last twenty minutes!”
Gothic: “Only because I knew you weren’t the kind of guy that would treat her
right.”
As
I’ve said, I was abysmally hammered, and I flashed a jack-o-lantern smile before cupping Gothic’s face in my hands.
Me: “How ‘bout we forget about Tracy for a second.
Let’s talk about us instead, yeah?”
Gothic:
(laughing again), “I can do soooooo much better than you,” she sneered,
then turning out of my grip and walking off the dance floor.
Once
again, I was left alone; gyrating couples and five billion decibel base beats vying for the right to uproot my already precarious
balance. I fell down, righted myself, and then stumbled outside, instinctually
drawn to the fifth of Jim Beam I’d left in Shane’s truck.
(By
the way, it’s entirely possible that Shane Bullock wasn’t even out with me that night, but his name always comes
to mind when I tell the story.)
With
the reclaimed liquor dangling from my left hand, (which didn’t matter, because The Channel was one of those rare establishments
that let you bring in your own boos), I found a seat at the bar and proceeded to drink straight bourbon right from the bottle.
At
one point, I noticed a girl sitting next to me whom I’d had sex with, and I immediately decided that history was about
to repeat itself. Her name was Wendy… or was it Mindy? Hard to tell since she and her sister were identical twins, and only one was a whore.
Hmmm… Okay, let’s just assume that the “whore” twin was the one I porked,
and that it was Wendy.
Because
our previous one-night-stand was a total sexual disaster, (I was, not surprisingly, SHELLACKED before, during, and afterwards),
Wendy wanted nothing to do with me. Unfortunately, I thought she was all mine,
which is why when Shane came over to tell me he was leaving, I insisted that I already had a ride home.
After
much protest, Shane departed, and that’s the last linear memory I can conjure.
I have flashes though, drunken pictures of various scenes that may or may not have actually occurred.
I
remember Wendy telling me I, quote, “Wasn’t that good in bed.” I
remember later talking with a Kappa Sigma dork to whom I professed my ability to, “Kick anybody’s ass in this
bar!” And, lastly, I remember lying on my back in the gravel parking lot
getting hit again and again in the face. With each blow, I rebelled with the
appropriate curse.
*
WHAM * “Fuck you!!!” * WHAM * “Fuck you!!!” * WHAM * “Fuck you!!!”
For
those of you that have heard this fragmented tale before, I’m sorry, but that’s all there is. I maintain that I simply DO NOT REMEMBER the guy, or guys, or midgets that beat the bejesus outta me.
My
next memory is waking up in the Delta State Hospital, but we’ll get to that.
One
of my then and forever best friends, Jeff Byrd, would later tell me that he ran into me at the K.A. dorm walking up the stairs,
my ears leaking blood, my forehead so swollen, that it looked as if I had golf balls under my skin. According to Jeff, I slovenly dismissed his concerns and tried to go to bed, but he physically forced me
to go to the D.S.U. hospital, and there I lost consciousness.
The
shards that follow have to do with various nurses waking me up every hour with a flashlight in my eye. Apparently, you have to do that when you fear a patient might have a concussion.
I
unleashed all manner of profanity each and every time I was rudely roused, and I’d like to take this opportunity to
apologize to any medical caregivers I told to go fuck themselves… with an umbrella… in front of a kindergarten
class… with no lube.
As
I said, my next CLEAR recollection is waking up in a hospital bed with a cold compress over my eyes. It was the next morning, and I felt like I was still drunk.
“GOD
DAMN IT!!!” I screamed, bolting upright, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?”
“Just
lay back, Michael Jr.,” a familiar voice pleaded, “They gave you something for the pain.”
It
was my mom.
She
was sitting by the bedside, and, as soon as I saw her tear-stained face, I passed out again.
This
fluctuating state of consciousness/unconsciousness would repeat itself many times before I truly “came to”, and
it was only then that I realized the extent to which I’d gotten my ass beat.
Much
to the horror of both the medical staff, and my mother, I pushed everyone away, rose from the bed, and staggered over to the
full length mirror on the wall. The reflection that greeted me was that of a
deformed and total stranger.
Now,
I’ve been “ruffed up” many times during my martial arts/drinking career, but never so much that I required
hospitalization. I’ve had my nose broken at least twice, my right hand
shattered, and numerous ribs cracked over the years. Still, I NEVER go to the
doctor, and chiefly because I’m more scared of needles than I am of, say, a ruptured spleen.
Regardless,
THAT day I was glad I’d been “saved”.
My
face was unrecognizable, literally, and I probably would’ve broken down in tears if I’d been alone. Giant, sub-dermal hemorrhages spanned the length of my forehead, my eyes were both black, and my head was
misshapen Elephant-Man-Style because of a cadre of bumps and bruises my hair was cut too short to conceal.
I’ve
always considered myself a pretty decent-looking guy, and this made my Medusa-esk reflection a thousand times worse.
“I’ll
never have sex again…” I whispered, then turning from the mirror and scampering into my mother’s arms. “Mommy!” I blubbered, “What happened?!? Who did this to me?!?”
It
was then that I acknowledged the other people in the room; a couple of D.S.U. nurses and maybe a doctor standing there with
mixed expressions of confusion and pity.
“GET
OUT!!! DON’T LOOK AT ME!!! I’LL
TURN ALL YOUR ASSES TO STONE!!!”
They
left, but it took another half an hour for my mom to calm me down and get me back into bed.
She told me what she knew via Jeff, (who’d been back and forth several times during the day), which didn’t
amount to shit.
Shane’s
account- again, via Jeff- was pretty much what I’ve alluded to above, and Jeff himself could only say that I’d
apparently gotten my ass beat outside The Channel after becoming too intoxicated to blink.
Now,
here’s the weird part… How did I get home?
