My phone sounds like it’s dying. I have the ringtone from Crank, and people who haven’t seen the movie tell me it’s a “scary ring tone.” I roll over and paw it to my ear.
“Freddie, I’m at Ralph’s. Get ready a little earlier, cause I’m thinking of coming straight there.”
Logan is businesslike and no nonsense because today, the last day of September, he’s declared a holiday: Man Day. He and I, tired of our frou frou film projects, completely worn out from working days on end without sleep, fretting to and fro about insignificancies such as permits, actor release forms, sun paths, film stock and footage, and shooting schedules, had had enough. Today, we set aside to become reacquianted with what we both have, in the past month, come dangerously close to losing – our manlihood.
First stop that morning was Krav Maga. This is, arguably, the impetus wherein Logan and I first became acquainted. During 290 (the class where you make 5 digital movies in the course of a semester), Logan had expressed interest in taking a self-defense. Having done my requisite nerd duty vis-à-vis research on the deadly arts, I casually suggested Krav Maga, the Israeli Defense Force preferred method of taking down enemies of the Israeli state, the national training center being conveniently located in Los Angeles. Krav Maga advertises itself as being a tried and true method of self-defense. In addition to being adopted by many police agencies, you can probably imagine the Palestinians who have been taken down by this form. Not surprisingly, the literature for Krav Maga tends to emphasize the “SWAT teams use this” as opposed to the “Palestinians get owned by this” angle when it comes to self-promotion.
Logan, Katie, and I rolled out after class one day to check out our self defense options. Logan had heard of a place on Sunset Blvd, which not only had a legit website, but the head instructor had also apparently attended one of the USC self defense classes as a guest lecturer. After passing the place a few times, we finally squeezed into the strip mall parking lot, and climbed the stairs to where this deadly dojo was situated.
The first thing we noticed were the screaming kids doing summersaults on the padded floor, and the rows of bored parents in folding chairs. More importantly was the lack of instructor. One kid in particular, I remember as being extremely devoted to his warm-ups, following up a forward roll with a resolute front kick and loud kiyai. I can only imagine that he was channeling all sorts of Saturday morning cartoons through his movements, and in his fertile mind, he imagined himself as the best ninja turtle – the one with the coolest weapons, and the one that all the other ninja turtles secretly wanted to be. Even Michaelangelo, brashest of the bunch, after the flippant remarks and cholesterol clogging pizza consumption, alone in the empty sewer that was his bedroom, would think to himself “If only… if only…”
We squeezed into a narrow backroom inhabited by several large men with Russian accents. Two of them were sitting watching a pirated DVD on a off color tiny television screen, oblivious to our presence. Logan spoke first, asking for class schedules and pricing. The head instructor asked him in a heavy Russian accent “You want to do the ground fight or the striking?” Logan replied timidly “Well, a little of both,” at which point the large Russian man coughed and handed Logan a flier.
We left that place very quickly. The Krav Maga center, in comparison, was like a heaven of hitting things. There were sweaty people, sweet looking leather bracers, and hard hitting ass rocking action. We left there very impressed, and here, a half year later, I find myself paying the monthly fee, and struggling to find time to go while doing a film project.
But today, we would make time.
They had us doing “Level 2” stuff, being the last day of the month, which involved hitting focus pads. Before and during each session, you feel like the wimpiest man alive, struggling to keep your arms up after shadowboxing for a while, and then afterwards, you feel like you could wrestle a rabid boar over Niagra Falls. The problem is at no point between “during Krav” and “after Krav” does anything happen which would logically cause you to feel that way about boars, save for simply “not throwing up during the session.” As a red blooded male, I’m fully aware that sometimes that’s the best that I can hope for.
This criteria for “feelin’ groovy” has been extended to exams, papers, and film shoots. A film shoot is a’ok so long as I didn’t spew queasy chunks on my actors. I’ve found living this way makes things a lot easier to handle.
Afterwards we stopped by Island’s Burgers on Pico, basically a Red Robin with x-treme sports videos playing, and all the waiters wear tropical themed button up shirts. This, to me, was dangerously un-manly, so I made sure to order my burger cooked to an acceptably manly medium-well.
During the service, our waiter was on top of the Coke refills like nobody I had ever seen before, which almost prompted me to reward him with my Secret Bonus Tip award, even though he did not qualify for it. Let me clarify – I have a secret thing that, if a waiter or waitress does it during the meal, instantly doubles their tip. I have awarded this Secret Bonus twice in my life, once at the Grinder by USC, and once at an Olive Garden.
To qualify for this secret tip, a server must remove and refill my empty Coke without me noticing it. Subjectively to me, it would appear that I finished my Coke, turned around to check something, and when I looked back, it was full again. The best part is, of course, the waiter or waitress would never know what qualified them for such a massively generous tip that seems to come from out of nowhere.
While our waiter at Island’s was fantastically on top of things, he wasn’t super secret ninja stealthy on top of things. Still, he was rewarded for his service, but not as absurdly as if he had been ninja about it.
Afterwards, we swung around back to USC and picked up David to go to the LAX Gun Range, located in Inglewood. It’s proximity to a not-so-nice neighborhood was evident, as the entry foyer of the gun range was behind a massive bullet proof window, where the employees would check over you and you could enter only after they buzzed you in.
Inside, the gun range was packed with people. Apparently, it was Smith and Wesson day, and you could try all the S&Ws for a mere $5. “Smith and Wesson sure as hell know it’s Man Day,” noted Logan. After handing over our state IDs, we were assigned a range and given a weapon, targets, and ammunition, a process that seemed “disturbingly easy” to David. After showing the two the basics, we sent 250 round of 9 mm downrange, with an occasional pit stop through a hanging paper target.
It’s hard to avoid flexing every muscle in your body, not out of tension or being scared of recoil (heavens no – we are men are we not?) but because if you’re holding a pistol, the epitome of destruction in a convenient, hand-held form, you feel like you should at least make sure your pecs are showing a little bit. Nothing wrong with that, except that it throws your aim off.
Then again, nothing wrong with having poor aim, so long as you’re firing a weapon and looking sleek and buff while doing it.
The HK USP Compact ended up being a little spitfire that was accurate as all hell. Heckler and Koch, besides bringing precision German engineering into the culturally unfamiliar realm of “killing people,” has one of my favorite corporate slogans: “In a world of compromise, some don’t.” Not only do they establish themselves as perfectionists, but in one fell swoop also manage to cast the rest of the world’s weapons manufacturers as dainty daisies that sit around during board meetings and dec
laring to each other that what they’re working on is “Good enough for now.” Each one of those board members probably shoot double bogeys on average at the local links, whereas Mr. Heckler and Mr. Koch have an unspoken agreement that if they don’t both sink hole-in-ones on a dogleg par five, they have promised to kill each other.
Biceps sore (from the flexing), we left the LAX Gun Range, where Logan and I proceeded to enter the final phases of Man Day – a visit to a German tavern, to consume bratwurst and sing loud German folksongs.
While Silver Lake doesn’t seem exactly like the Eagle’s Nest at first glance, the Red Lion Tavern on the inside is indistinguishable from some tucked away hearth in the Swiss alps. While we waited for our meat dishes, we arm wrestled. “The secret,” I told Logan after beating him, “is to imagine your wrist coming down over top of the other person.” A middle aged woman one table away interrupted me and chimed in unexpectedly: “No no – the real secret is to pull your opponent’s arm towards you, and then go down.” Leverage-wise, this made sense, and applying the technique, Logan defeated me soundly. While we geared up for another go, the woman’s friend came over and felt my bicep, which was both unnecessary (anyone can see it’s the largest thing in the room), and super creepy and awkward.
I like to think she hasn’t washed that hand since, not because she touched one of my legendary rippling biceps, but because the sheer raw potential energy in my flexed bicep caused her hand to shrivel up and fall off, and nobody wants to wash a little ol’ shriveled up hand anyway.
Afterwards, we went to Ralph’s, and purchased the most expensive cigars they had ($2 a piece). They came in special individual glass cases, which were already shattered, which meant extracting the cigars from what essentially ended up being a box of broken glass shards. We lit them up, and Logan proceeded to use a wood burning tool to etch a naked woman riding a swordfish onto a large pine blank for his movie.
Then, I started to wave bubbles through Logan’s bubble sword. He asked me to stop, citing a violation of manliness on this most holy of days. I continued anyway, because if waving bubbles around with a plastic sword is wrong, then dammit I don’t want to be right.
Man Day ended up being a fantastic idea to unwind from shooting our 310s. I shot a gun, punched things, ate tons of meat, got felt up by a middle aged woman, smoked a cigar, and made bubbles.
Jealous? Thought so.
