Slightly Well Known, Totally Blowing Himself

Back when I was regularly selling myself out to the wasteland of the Nonalignment Pact, I made a couple of attempts to appeal to the vanity of a one Mr. Eugene Robinson, who, in case you are unfamiliar, is the front man of the San Francisco based band, Oxbow. I won't bother to go into why they rock. Check them out on your own, I've waxed rhapsodic long enough on them in the past. Dig it up and draw your own opinions.

I've held off posting the small piece he finally ended up sending me for many months now as I found it to be both written more for his own vanity than anyone else's interest, and also written from the point of view of a very threatening man with something to prove to no one in particular save perhaps himself.

Basically, I wasn't interested in in posting the piece because he is capable of much more as a writer. His book, which I might add was the only reason he agreed to follow through with me, is a great read on the subject of fighting and why he is so into it. I highly recommend the book, and I also highly recommend you don't take this following bit as a litmus test to his worth as a writer.

The male ego is often something much like a drunk behind the wheel of a train going downhill in total darkness, which it so say that the male ego unhinged is as terrifying as it is pathetic.

Stumbling across the back and forth between us over this, I figured what the hell. It's just languishing in my inbox, collecting dust. Why not air it out and move on?

Here I am, moving on.

Enjoy.


SOMETHING ABOUT A BOOK ON FIGHTING. AND FUCKING. AND THE INELUCTABLE DIFFICULTY OF DOING BOTH AT THE SAME TIME.


"And if there's anything I can do to make you feel better, Eugene, please just let me know."

Yes. The ol' "I'll do anything gambit". The ways in which I had been snookered, snaked, and otherwise pulled around the maypole are too extensive to go into here and are off of the point besides which was, as I saw it, and to quote ODB: how to buy pussy I could not afford.

"...anything at all to make you feel better."

And in a 100-foot Charlie Brown-cliff dive of total stupidity I say:

"Your pussy. And me in it."

And she laughed and laughed, a light trilling thing teetering dangerously close to a guffaw before it resolved itself into a "No. But, really...."

So, there you have it.

What I did next I am not particularly proud of but the way I see it there was no other way: I called Homeland Security.

Yes. I figure they will know what to do and at the very least a few weeks in Gitmo while they try to figure out the mix up should help her align her priorities in way that much better accords with mine.

So it is done. The functional equivalent of a TKO. All in the name of love.

Have I mentioned the book I've written on fighting or my great and uncanny craft with segues?

Fight: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Ass-Kicking but Were Afraid You'd Get Your Ass Kicked for Asking [www.amazon.com/Fight-Everything-Wanted-Ass-Kicking-Afraid/dp/0061189227]

....while it is unlikely to rescue me from a life of continued penury it comes as close to anything to explaining why I am smiling when I am fighting. Or calling Homeland Security.

And for this reason you should buy it. If you, and your relatives who don't live anywhere near Gitmo, know what's good for you.


--Eugene S. Robinson