Hello! This is where I'm posting my thoughts and experiences about things....all the things. I will be sharing the random thoughts that pop into my head. Some are deep, some are dumb. It's up to others to figure out which is which.
That's right, it happened. One, I posted and did not let three months go by. Two, Brad and Noelle got hitched. Now to be fair, they got legally hitched back in January/February. But last weekend, they got ceremonially hitched. And do you know what they did? They held the ceremony at the goddamn zoo. Do you have any idea how fucking cool that is?! They had an opportunity to feed fucking giraffes!! That's right, live giraffes! And man do they have long-ass tongues. I mean, I had read and heard that they did. But holy shit! I learned this first hand, when I was holding a carrot "out of reach". Little did I know that the tall motherfucker would stick his tongue out, reach a foot down, and yank that sumbitch out of my fingers. Not going to lie, he licked me in the process. I gotta tell you, giraffe tongue feels like sandpaper.
Yeah, that's right, I had a derby and a cane. And yes, that's also right, I got glutes that you can bounce a nickel off of. You know it's a good day when your wife takes a picture, comes up to show you said picture, and comments about how you got "dat ass". And for the record, I can help you get "dat ass". It's real easy, if you know what the secret ingredient is. Here's a hint: sweat. It's sweat. Also training. But I digress. That giraffe was awesome, though.
They also had a red panda exhibit. If I were the zoo, I'd have chained the door to the re panda exhibit. It would be remarkably easy to just hop the glass and have a pet panda. And gosh are they adorable. Seriously. When they get angry, they stand on their hind legs and stick their front paws in the air. What they consider an intimidating threat, I consider an invitation for a hug.
The rest of the celebration was pretty tame. They had an open bar. Considering how many times I went back for straight tequila, I'm impressed that I wasn't cut off. The same goes for my wife, and whatever-the-fuck she was drinking. It was orange with red in the bottom. Looked delicious. And based on how quickly we both got plowed, you could tell that we were finally out for a night without the kid. You know what they say, "When the kid goes to Nai-Nai's, the parents get schwasty-facedd.
Beyond that, the night was generally tame. Noelle commented that she knew Brad was "The One" when she was playing a video game and he brought her soup, and left without saying a word. Romance. And so that's it.
Moral of the Story: Brad and Noelle are hitched, and I imagine that giraffe was a real hit with the ladies, back in high school. Or at least auditioned for KISS.
Now I can tell you, working and striving to be Alpha is a process. And as you do it more and more, you get better and better. As you get better at slipping into Alpha, it also gets easier to modify into whichever state you need. I'll use training as an example. I have another post coming that will elaborate on this, but one example is the deadlift. When I deadlift heavy, and I mean heavy, it puts me in a Beta state. For those that don't know, the deadlift taxes the entire central nervous system (CNS). As a result, I get jittery like a motherfucker. My adrenaline gets pumping, my heart gets jumping, and I feel like I'm on coke. Disclaimer: I've not actually tried coke.
What do I do to prevent this? I breath deeply and listen to calming music. It allows me to slow my pulse, calm my mind, and focus on the lift. I take out the ego, take out the mind, and focus on letting my body do what I know it can do. There are other training times when you want to let yourself go. If I am doing a sprint, trying to go as hard and far as possible, as quickly as possible, then you bet your sweet as that I am pushing myself into Beta. Click the link below, to see a heavy deadlift to Adele.
The same happens when I am fighting in Krav. I work hard to maintain Alpha. Why? Because I need that calm and focus. With that said, there are certain occasions that a Beta approach is better. I have sparred many people, using a "crazed" Beta approach. Why did it work? Because I allowed myself to be loud, aggressive, and chaotic. It added a psychological component to the fight, which forced my opponent to hesitate. Transferring that energy into an attack, I was able to overwhelm them with strikes. Notice in the video below, how the instructor blends the Alpha mentality of decision making, with the Beta mentality of attack. Note: This is not me in the video, and I am not this good (yet).
Now with all that being said, I can still tell when I am slipping into Beta. It happens at random times. I may have a long day at work. I may have a short day at work. I may wake up a certain way, or fall asleep a certain way. Regardless of the trigger, I have learned to recognize when I am slipping into a Beta state. This also happens to be when I am the most reactive, combative, and hypersensitive. When that happens, I step back. I isolate myself from interacting with others, so that I can regather my composure. Sometimes I still fuck it up. Even so, I work to correct myself, and then correct my actions.
Now why did I mention this? Because I slipped into Beta, got shitfaced, and ended up buck-ass naked in the tub. Read my second Baby Daddy/What the Shit, China crossover episode. But something good came from that. Noelle made the comment that she gained satisfaction from the story, because I always have my shit together. Little does she know that I ain't got shit together. I have literally been white knuckling it, praying not to fuck up beyond all reason (FUBAR). BUT! I have been working to maintain an Alpha state of mind.
The final bit is the responsibility of the Alpha. Being Alpha is great. It is. You have confidence. You give negative fucks (fucktosynthesis!!). You feel genuinely, appropriately powerful. At the same time, being Alpha means that you are a fucking Alpha. If you are going to be the big, bad wolf, or the King/Queen lion, you need to be ready to look after the pack. Taking an Alpha role means that you are accepting the Alpha consequences. I fucked up last weekend. I acknowledge it. I accept it. And I corrected it. I am owning my fuck up, and making it right. That is Alpha. Being Alpha is recognizing a potentially dangerous or volatile situation, and taking precautions to prevent it. Being Alpha is showing up, helping people, when they need it. Just as being Alpha means that you embody fucktosynthesis, you also have to give all the fucks. You can harvest power from the fucks that don't matter, but you sure as shit need to use that power to give fucks for the people that do.
Moral of the Story: Know yourself, be confident in yourself, and achieve Alpha status. Also, you can be Alpha as Fuck without having your shit together.
For further listening, here is a great video that discusses "being Alpha". He says the same shit I do, but adds a bit more of a hippie-dippie perspective: (warning: possible language).
First of all, I need to say a special "hello" to Ukraine. I don't know what happened, but y'all lit my shit UP this weekend! Based on some of the referring URLs, I'm guessing I made it onto a Ukrainian porn site. Not sure how that happens, but I guess I'm flattered? Either way, it is refreshing to see yet another former Soviet Union country reading my shit.
(Yes, this is how I assume Ukrainians read my blog. Fuck you, I don't know how it gets printed in the news.)
Now, onto business. This past weekend was intense. On Friday, after dating for a decade, Noelle and Brad (Game Night Friends) got married. In true fashion, it was a courthouse marriage. With one being a professed atheist, and another being a true agnostic, it was very entertaining to hear the volunteer Baptist minister talk about the two entering into a marriage blessed by Jesus Christ, and bound by a fear of G-d. Because, you know, Jesus.
In other news, we had a Baby Shower. We had a bunch of people come over, we got a lot of items that were critical, and I drank my lunch and dinner. That's it. It was a great time, but not one with a particular story. Tod-d was there. He gave our baby an airline bottle of Jack Daniel's. He is truly the Drunk Uncle. Drunk Uncle Tod-d.
Then, most importantly, we had the Super Bowl. That's right, sports! Patriots won. I don't rightly care. What I do care about? The wing cook-off. My wife, Ahmed, and I each entered into gladiatorial combat. My wife fixed two flavors of wing. Ahmed fixed two flavors of wing. I fixed one flavor of wing. Everyone was trying to figure out how to name their respective wings. Do you know what I called mine? WINNER!!!! That's right!! I fucking won!! Do you have any idea how goddamn rare and lucky that is?! It's like Godzilla and King Kong going to war, and Tokyo coming out as the fucking champion! Seriously. Ahmed and my wife are both known for being the best cooks in our group. And I fucking won?
Do you want to know my first thought, after the votes were tallied? Hot damn! Do you know what my second thought was? Oh, shit. Why? Because I literally just beat my wife in an area that she is far superior. Not only that, but I beat my preggers wife. And yes, I used the sentence because it is rare that anyone can say they beat their preggers wife and not sound like the biggest shit in the world. And you know what? I was correct. We got home, my wife hugged and congratulated me, and then she immediately asked what type of bullshit I pulled to win the competition.
Of course, the answer was simple. I made American wings. My wife's wings were very distinctly Chinese. Ahmed's wings were very distinctly Mediterranean. My wings were Southwestern. They were salty, spicy, and buttery. Except for one person, the judges were all Americans. They were looking for something hotter. Mine stood out. I actually think my wife's honey glazed wings were the best. Mine were closer to a traditional hot wing. I imagine that, with my flavor pallet, my wife could perfect the spices in my recipe. Until then, I will simply relish in the fact that a busted watch is on point every so often.
Moral of the Story: My wings won, and I am most assuredly going to lose when my wife reads this story.
