Shawn Peters: No Pun Intended

The Culturally Inaccurate Kid

I have to admit, I am 99% stoked to go see the remake of one of the seminal movies of my youth, "The Karate Kid." But that remaining one percent is really bugging me. 

Let's set the stage, and while we're at it, set the way back machine for 1984.

As a skinny kid who moved from the East Coast to   California about five years before and was handed his share of bullying and embarrassments courtesy of his accent and uncool ways, the original flick starring Pat Morita, Ralph Macchio and pre-"Leaving Las Vegas" beauty, Elisabeth Shue was pretty much my own fantasy brought to film. Oh, and did I mention that the pre-pubescent version of yours truly also studied martial arts for several years (three years of Judo, one year of Tae Kwon Do) and used to frequent the specific water slide/arcade where Macchio and Shue had their first date.

None of the sequels had the same effect on me as I grew older (but Macchio never seemed to). By the time Mr. Miyagi was training Hillary Swank, there was no more mojo left in the dojo.

Day 16 - The Worrier's Creed

Two days... no Domino.

Sara and the kids left for Maine mid-week, and I was out late on Thursday. When I got home, I was greeted by Mahjmallow, our all-white, demure and  domestic female cat. She wanted some attention and some food and some water, so I obliged. But there was no sign of her brother, Domino. 

No biggie.

Domino, with his black fur, save two white spots on his underside, is more independent, prone to spending the entire day our jungle of a back yard, chasing turkeys and catching smaller prey. Several times this summer, Sara and I have awoken to gory feathered presents left in our bedroom from his nights out hunting. 

But he wasn't around in Friday morning either, even when I refilled the cats' metallic food bowls, each Meow Mix nugget making a telltale "clinkety-plink" that usually calls both felines in a hurry. Domino was a Domi-no-show when I got home last night as well. I opened bags of treats and pleaded with Mahjmallow, "Where is your brother?" Needless to say, if she knew the answer, she wasn't talking.

I waited all night for Domino to turn up, but it never happened, and so as I drifted off to fitful sleep, I worried. I worried about what might have become of Domino, and what I'd tell the kids, and when I should tell them, and whether we'd be allowed to adopt another cat if we were honest about the fact that we let our cats outside. I worried about everything... because that's what I do.

Day 32 - Lying in Wait

There's a moment when you have a chance to either tell the truth or lie.

Actually, there are millions of moments, but each one is an individual, special snowflake. The funny thing is that if you tell the truth, you usually only have to do so once, and if you do have to speak it again, it's easy because it's still the truth. But when  you lie, you tend to have to repeat that lie because there are cracks in it that you can't help trying to caulk on the fly. By the time you've told that one lie, not to mention lie 1.1, 1.2, 2.0, 2.1 and several other evolutions, everyone has heard it in one form or another, and telling the truth becomes embarrassing at best, and impeachable at worst.

The snowflake is now big enough for charcoal eyes and a carrot nose.

Why all the lie chat? Well...

I don't know whether David Ortiz was telling the truth when he said he never did steroids.

Day 34 - Not So Loose Impediments

At what point do you look at the signs and say, "I don't know if it's God or Nature or my wife's voodoo doll... but somebody out there doesn't want me playing golf?"

Earlier this summer, I shot the lowest round of my life at the Links at Poland Springs in Poland, Maine. It was an 82, a full four strokes better than I'd ever scored before. Improving your best round by four strokes is outrageous and statistically outlier-ish.  After all, four strokes is what a good player expects to take on an entire hole, so basically I played 18 holes in this round in the number of strokes it took me to play 17 holes at my previous best.

I tried to stay humble. I bought my playing partners dinner that night. I announcing publically that I never expected to shoot that number again. I did everything short of sacrificing my hybrid clubs to the golf gods in supplication. I mean, I remember Prometheus and know too well the punishments that await those who take something divine back to this Earth. I understood I was unworthy and felt I'd done the right thing.

Three-united And It Feels So Good

What do moronic athletes, bread-ensconced pasta, and on-line gold-digging all have in common? The sum of their parts is what it took to get me blogging again for the first time in over six months.

Will this be the beginning of renaissance, or is it merely the blogging equivalent of Glen Close exploding out of the bathtub only to eat some hot lead at the end of "Fatal Attraction?" I have no idea.

Thick Accent, Thin Latex

I was in Las Vegas for my annual guys' weekend/fantasy baseball draft this past Friday through Sunday, and on Friday night, we saw something that honestly would've gotten cut out of any movie script I ever wrote because it "wasn't believable."

Around 2:00 AM, after returning to Caesar's Palace from a night of vodka-soaked excess, my guys and I all decided that we'd pay a steep hangover price if we didn't go pay $4.00 a bottle for water at Caesar's Convenius Maximus (okay, not the name of the convenience store... but it should be.)

While two of my buddies went to get the waters, I realized that I needed some lip balm, stat! So I ambled over to the "toiletries" section of the store and grabbed some Blistex. At the same time, a guy in his mid-20's came running (not jogging... running) into the store wearing a trendy "club" shirt and a desperate look on his face. He made a beeline for the section I was in and grabbed the first three-pack of condoms he saw, before hustling over to the check-out line, where he found himself behind my friends and another woman who was determined to get several price checks before making a purchase.

I rejoined my guys in line and found they were oblivious to the condom shopper behind us, even though he was literally bouncing from foot to foot like a third-grander who has been holding in a pee for two hours. By the time it was our turn to check out with our waters and lip-goo, he was nearly apoplectic.

Maybe it was the Belvederes in my belly, or it might've just been the fact that it all seemed so much like a "bad sex comedy" script that I assumed it was my role, but I started hurrying the cashier along.

"Ma'am, you've got to ring us up quick. The gentleman behind us has a much more pressing purchase."

At this point, my friends noticed him, the pack of rubbers in his hand, and the way he was dancing in anticipation.

We cleared the counter and he put his condoms down with a 20 dollar bill. That's when he finally spoke with a Eastern European accent tinged with good-old-fashioned American excitement.

"Thank you... you have no idea... I have worked so hard three hours for this... plus the 30 dollar cover charge."

The tortoise-inspired cashier seemed to downshift in making change, but my interest in the Euro-dude was now fully ramped up.

"Forget the change! He doesn't care about the change!"

"Actually, I do care about the change."

Apparently, whatever the night held, he was going to need those six dollars for something.

When the cashier handed him the money and the condoms (at least she didn't ask him if he needed a bag or a receipt), the amorous young buck grabbed them and began to run out the door. Without ever considering the appropriateness of our actions, we all followed, chasing after him for a good thirty yards while cheering, "Go! Go! Go!" as he disappeared into a bank of elevators.

I don't know if he went upstairs and had the best sex of his life with a complete stranger, or if he got up there and found that his Vegas dream girl and several of his designer shirts had already walked out the door.

I only know that I spent three days in casinos and sports books and didn't see anyone acting like they had more on the line than our friend from Convenius Maximus.