Sponge Bob Karate

A lot of wily characters show up in a dojo, but there is a certain category that defies all logic: the erstwhile nincompoop. Within this category, we have subclasses, to wit: the self help addict, the nutty professor, the wayward nymph, the Ophra Hot Momma, to name a few. They have in common their complete lack of motor and/or social skills. Most have never ran, skipped or hopped in their youth and appear in their overzise or undersize gis in the hope of exorcizing their demons.

Some believe that an overindulgence in sunflower seeds and the timely incantations of zen koans will somehow enable them to open the secrets of the oriental fighting arts and thus ascend to an elevated plane of consciousness.

Some come in the hope of meeting people, finding at long last their soul mate among the bitter sweetness of aching bodies and secondhand sweat. Because you never know.

Some come hoping to reconciliate their postmodernist view of the body with the results of their last medical checkup.

Some come in search of karmic resonance to their otherwise futile lives.

And some come to wed the east with the west somewhere south of the border.

They all hate to sweat. They all have a lot of questions that need to be answered. They all would prefer to be elsewhere while there. They have all been 6 months learning the practice kata, the two or three time a month they would saunter into the dojo.

But a few are sticklers, and after a sojourn through dojoland finally find someone that gives them a black belt. Like champagne bubbles, they froth to the top of many martial arts organizations, appearing fat and beaming in seminar photo ops.

Proving only the tenacity of the human spirit to rise to all ocassions.

No comments: