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Saturday, December 04, 2004

Yesterday someone found my blog with the Google search string "phoebe ling fuck." Good lord!

I attended an introductory kung fu class, and it intrigued me enough to make a commitment to ten months of training. I am already impatient to know as much as I can about the art, and I've been searching Amazon for the required reading material. My prospective favorite book on the list is Deadly Karate Blows: The Medical Implications, which, as its name suggests, describes how to kill people with your bare hands and contains drawings of the righteous internal damage you will inflict as you do so. I'm already chuckling my way through the preview on Amazon; I can't wait to read the whole thing.

The instructor took us (being myself and another potential trainee, Chad) through sit-ups and push-ups like a drill sergeant. This is fine as far as sit-ups go, but any attempt I make at push-ups is remarkably like that scene in Stripes. "That's ... three. You're almost ready for the Special Olympics!" I have always had useless twigs for arms.

Of particular amusement to me is the instructor's pronunciation of Chinese phrases. Sure, I don't know more than a couple dozen Chinese words, but I can clearly hear that he has a thick Western accent. Part of me wishes I had a Chinese kung fu instructor. But I think I'd actually want to learn Mandarin beforehand. And when the hell would I have time to learn Mandarin?
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