So I haven't blogged due to late nights out and drunkenness generally speaking--though on Friday I met parents and confirmed--confirmed that the two lame-o whitey teachers at my school who have never rubbed me the right way (or much at all) do indeed have foreign wives of Asian decent (one Chinese, one Japanese, so that's diversity). I have even met one of their half-breed spawn, which will be all the more unfortunate as they grow up to be maladjusted, maladroit.

It was odd talking to so many parents, while holding back my Spanish, while wondering why it was that we were translating everything into Spanish because we could while the poor subcontinentals, Burmese, Mongolians, Brazilians, and Hungarians had to endure another speech of like uncomprehended content. Still, it was remarkable how much I was able to pull off with assurance and aplomb.

Luckily, the weekend soon arrived and with it the promises of kendo, which I have thoroughly absorbed and enjoyed. There are many funny moments of dojo-humor, including the moment when Shrimp Sensei discovers that fat-Mongoloid-Korean-man (I mean, really fat) cannot sonkyu properly because he has managed to insert both fat legs into the same side of his hakama. Said fatty then hustles downstairs to change, though later as he and I are doing men, his obi comes undone and he scurries downstairs. Today passed with little incident, though Bigrock Sensei in putting us through walking drills at one point clapped his, um, bricks once, signalling a change to backwards direction. He then pauses to help the chubby 10-year-old new student with his shinai, while I am still hustling backwards, all the way to the shrine. So it is seven practices now, and I look forward to more. It's gotten to the point where when I received a letter from NYSTCE as regards the ATS-W, my first thought was as to whether I could make it from Utopia Parkway to Chinatown in time for practice.

Also, it is odd that there is a brand of Chinese cigarettes called "Long life."