A MidWinter Night's Iaido Nightmare

*A classic from my '03 archives, and one that still gives my pet rock Seymour nightmares, even though he's in Texas*

My imaginary life is often as ludicrous as my real one.

In January, the on-line writing club I belong to sent me the following exercise: write anything you want, but it must begin with the sentence "I knew right off there was going to be real trouble this time".

The group facilitator knew this was an open door to this knucklehaid ;-)

I had just finished with one of my usual lunatic email responses to a humor column by Amy Chavez, concerning the Japanese art of Iaido: the drawing of a Japanese sword (katana), and all the related necessities to bring off a successful ceremonial and casualty-free iaido session.

*TOING*:

I knew right off there was going to be real trouble this time. And, as usual, I didn't take counsel of my fears, having bade them to go get a drink and chill out. I should have joined them.

It started when I read a recent column by an American living in Japan, Amy Chavez (Japan Lite), about the ancient Japanese art of Iaido: the proper manner of drawing a Japanese sword (katana). It included the setting up of a proper room for doing so (dojo, a special place for martial arts training), the proper attire for same (hakama, a traditional bushido garment with a skirted bottom), and the necessity of learning from a proper teacher (sensei).

But I didn't need no stinking sensei: I had Iaido For Dummies, The Video Series (patent pending litigation assessments for damage, etc). Throw it in the VCR, don the Japanese fighting dress in the privacy of my own abode (so I wouldn't have to open up some katana whupass on some cretin making fun of my chicken legs), and learn to dazzle and scare the snarf out of friends, colleagues, neighbors and Errol Flynn with my sterling, self-taught katana-manship.

So there I was, one mid-winter night's eve, poised before the TV, minding my own business and looking like a bit-playing buffoon in a Japanese 'B' movie, chicken legs and all. And then -- while doing some strange warm-up exercises and sounding (un)like Jackie Chan in a Hanes underwear commercial -- IT showed up. IT being a rather large, ungainly millar moth. It's January...it's cold and snowy outside. What in the Sam Hill Horsefeathers is this darn fool piece of cloth eatin' buggaratus doing in my abode?

Before my horrified pet rock Seymour could urge restraint, I forgot the tape playing before me, the silly attire I was in, and the weapon of choice in hand. I went after the moth with the ultimate Ginsu flyswatter/slicer-dicer: "Okay, moth-san, say yer prayers! Gyaaaa!"

I made it clear at the outset-san: no prisoners would be taken.

At the unrealized height of the frenzied melee, I seem to recall noticing a rather authoritative knocking/pounding on my door, increasing in urgency and volume: "POLICE! OPEN UP!"

It seems that during my heady pursuit of Mothra, a neighbor or two were astonished and just as horrified as Seymour, to see through my shredded blinds, "a crazed dude in a funky dress, wildly swinging a really long knife", and basically sword-o-matic-ing everything within reach, in a flurry of chopped and shredded furniture, plaster, fixtures and moth parts, thereby resulting in a frantic 911 call.

Fortunately for me, the responding officer(s) knew me, having responded to previous calls concerning my culinary (in)acumen in the kitchen, and were less nonplused by the widespread carnage in my abode, than I shortly would be. They did relieve me of the training tape, though, before departing, ignoring the cowering pet rock in the corner, under what was left of the computer desk.

But no worries: Amy doesn't send me anything further about the history and/or how-to of anything remotely bushido. Granted, she DID send me a column about the art of Japanese sumo wrestling, but apparently assumes I'm not about to don a giant thong diaper and attack my loveseat...

2009 Update: so far, I haven't ;-)

2010 Update: not yet...