#larusso women i would die for you ask me to die for you

[leohtttbriar]

so @youandthemountains was like "sam's relationship with gender is performative" several weeks ago and that was so smart i'm still thinking about it and anyway i wrote this.

how the Under-18 Doomsday-All-Valley-Soul-Tournament-featuring-Punches would go if they paid me the big bucks:

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The sweat on Tory’s neck was splitting like a delta at the top of her spine. The back of her gi was an icy hit every time she lifted her shoulders to breathe and the soaked fabric brushed against her skin.

Larusso was standing tall and straight on the other side of the mat, watching while the refs and coaches muttered amongst themselves in the corner. One of them was gesturing towards Larusso, but she met his glares, sturdy.

Tory bent down and rested her hands on her knees. Her legs were quivering. She felt like she was coming down from a bad trip, everything uncomfortable and watery. She clenched her hands in the fabric over her thighs and closed her eyes, letting darkness and the buzzing in her inner ear fade in.

“Here,” said a steady voice. She looked up.

A pale hand held out a pink strip of some sort of shimmering ribbon. She followed the hand to the set of solid shoulders and then up to a solid face.

“It’s pre-wap,” said Larusso. “Holds back your hair.”

She gestured to the thin band on her head doing a lot of work to keep the torturous loose wisps at bay. Tory stood up straight and self-consciously shoved her own loose hair back onto her crown, where it would certainly stay for awhile, wet as it now was.

“I’m fine, princess,” said Tory, trying to disguise how tired she was.

Larusso just looked at her.

“Larusso!” called the center ref. She walked off, holding her exhaustion well.

“Come on, Nichols,” said Kreese, suddenly at her side shoving a water bottle against her arm. She cringed at the effort it took to lift her hand to grab it. “They’re still deliberating. Hang out in the back. Stretch. This isn’t over.”

Tory was once again grateful for his coldness and pushed herself out of his space with ease. She could feel the eyes of the other cobras, the audience, the disappointed parents, and the baffled students as she marched across the gym.

The air in the hallway snapped along her skin and cleared her head before she descended into the women’s locker room, now empty with the lingering smell of fruity shampoo on the steam. She stood, staring at the lockers and the grimy floor, before realizing Larusso’s pre-wrap was hanging off her fingers. She collapsed onto the bench with a breath and held up the ribbon, stretching it and putting it up to her face to look at the world through the sparkly pink material. She breathed and breathed and her heart finally stopped threatening to burst out her neck.

A shadowy figure appeared in the pink world and she quickly dropped the pre-wrap to see Larusso standing at the entrance, leaning against the open gate.

“They asked me if I was throwing the match,” she said.

Tory let out a high-pitched Ha! before she could help it, surprising herself.

“I mean, that’s sort of what I said, too.”

Tory rolled her eyes and bit out, “Yeah? Did you tell them you’re just hoping we both die on the mat from exhaustion?”

Larusso smiled, small. “Sure, I guess. As long as you go first.”

Tory snorted, feeling mean and vicious but not those things at all. The locker room was quiet while she twisted the pre-wrap over her pointer finger, over and over again. She squinted up at Larusso, tallying up the signs of fatigue: the sweaty hairline, the loose gi, the patchy red on her cheeks, and the slight shiver as her body cooled down. The heaving chest.

“They’re really not happy with us,” continued Larusso.

“Well, duh,” sighed Tory, looking back the ribbon on her hand, some rage leaking back into her bloodstream for the first time since their fight had started. "Not exactly the way it's supposed to go. Normally there's a winner after forty-five minutes."

“It just doesn’t seem like that big a deal to me. Not like they have anyplace to be while we finish fighting.”

“They also didn’t want either of us competing this late in the game,” said Tory. “The guy checked my weight, like, three times.”

Larusso snorted. “Yeah, mine too.”

“Maybe if the dudes were taller, we wouldn’t be in the same class and they wouldn’t have to put up with us.”

“Or if the dudes knew how to put on weight,” muttered Larusso snidely.

Tory glanced back up at her—

Larusso was looking at her feet, arms crossed, her mouth twisted in an apologetic grimace. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I mean—”

Tory burst out laughing.

“Don’t hold back, Larusso,” she said, ribs aching. “That why you two broke up? He couldn’t take your hours at the gym?”

“How did you know about that?” asked Larusso, turning pinker.

“Robby,” answered Tory, quickly. “He keeps tabs on you.”

Larusso frowned and shifted a little against the gate.

“Huh,” she decided.

“Yup.”

Tory turned her attention back to the ribbon. It was cutting of the blood circulation in her finger, turning the tip a dark red.

“If you let me win, I’ll break your knees,” she said.

The room was silent as Larusso moved to stand in front of her, the sound of her feet on the tile muffled by the ringing in Tory’s ear. She frantically tried to work out how much she meant it and came up with nothing but air.

“You’re literally so stupid,” said Larusso, now leaning against the lockers in front of Tory. Tory kept her eyes on Larusso’s ankles, tugging hard on the pre-wrap in her hand.

“Fuck you,” she whispered, words boiling up from her stomach, like bile, like heartburn. “I can’t stand you.”

Truly, it was one the wildest feelings Tory had ever felt. It sort of made her think of watching Cinderella with her mom as a kid. How annoyed she got when the dumb mice had to carry the key up all those stairs. How big stairs are for mice. How stupid the goal.

When they first met, she had thought that Sam Larusso was another version of a copy of every girl who had ever made Tory feel like an out of place bone in a piece of meat. She was a girl in a doll commercial, with perfect braids and the promise of braces in the next few years. How Aisha could’ve liked her let alone been her best friend at any point rankled Tory to no end.

But, like every conclusion to every story in Tory’s life, all Larusso ended up being was more wanted. A wanted fighter. A wanted friend. A wanted kisser by the pool, in the yard, on the beach, in the hallway…

(Tory spent a lot of time imagining the way Larusso would wear Miguel on her arm.)

She wanted to rip something away from her—an intestine—a piece of her spine—her mouth.

“I can’t stand you,” Larusso replied. “You think this is war or something.”

“No, I don’t,” snapped Tory. “You just don’t care about winning. Not like me. You don’t get it.”

“Yes, I do. I’m here, aren’t I? I wanted this.”

“You can’t care about winning. Not with,” Tory gestured vaguely at Larusso’s clenched up body. “Not with what you have. Are. Whatever.” She scrubbed at her mouth in frustration, smearing the sweat from her upper lip.

Larusso was quiet for a couple beats before replying, “That doesn’t mean I don’t want this.”

Tory peered up at her, struggling to maintain her scowl. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”

Her mouth twisted again—embarrassed. She scratched at her shoulder, exposed more and more by the loosened, sweaty gi.

“You know,” she said out the corner of her voice. “The final match. You and me. Center mat.”

Something that sounded very much like the echo in a sea-shell sat on Tory’s skin. Abruptly, her mouth tasted of brine.

“Why?” asked Tory.

“I don’t know,” said Sam, frustrated. “It’s just—well, better with you.”

“Obviously,” said Tory. “I’m better than everyone else.”

“Yes! I mean, no. Yeah, no. Yes.”

Tory put her hands on the bench behind her and leaned back, waiting. Sam lifted the hair off her neck, twisting it all up into a messy bun in her fist, and then sighed deeply.

“Okay,” she said. “Like, how long have you been doing this?”

“Like a year.”

“No, not karate,” said Sam. “Just, you know, fighting. Martial arts, or whatever.”

“Nine? Ten years?”

“So most of your life, right?”

“Yeah,” Tory shrugged. “I guess.”

“That’s what I mean, I think. We both sort of grew up doing it. So we’re even, you know?”

That didn’t feel like a complete answer.

“I hardly think me using my neighbor’s old punching bag as a kid is the same as your dad literally being a karate teacher,” said Tory.

“It wasn’t my dad,” said Sam, crossing her arms, letting her ponytail fall in curtain.

“Whatever, Larusso.”

Sam scratched the top of one foot with the heel of the other. Tory was gaining enough energy back to remember her bitterness.

“It was my grandpa,” continued Sam after a pregnant moment. “We would do kata in his garden.”

She pushed her hair back in another frustrated gesture and met Tory’s gaze.

“He was too old to do much else, and I was too little,” she said. “But, well.”

“I accidentally broke a kid’s nose in second grade,” said Tory, wanting to argue some point but not knowing what that point was. “So my mom put me in an under-8 boxing class.”

Sam blinked at her and then burst out laughing.

“How did you accidentally break a kid’s nose?” she grinned.

“He tried to cheat at the pacer test so I elbowed him,” said Tory, turning her flushing face away.

“Oh, yeah, I was sent to the principal’s office for something like that,” said Sam. “I think this girl tried to wipe a booger off on my backpack or something? Anyway, we got in to a fight about it.”

“Wow,” said Tory. “Haven’t always been defense-only, then.”

“Well, it’s like when my grandma forced me to take these ballroom classes one summer,” mused Sam. “Like, I only like leading when my partner can do it. But almost no one can do it.”

“Just move on the beat,” said Tory, confused. “Not that hard.”

“Nope. Not hard.”

Tory watched as Sam pulled her hair up again into a makeshift bun.

“Princess,” she said. “Want me to cut it off.”

Sam eyed her. “You’ve already left your mark, dude.” She flicked her gaze to her right bicep.

Tory swallowed but pushed through. “Dare you to cut it then.”

“Why.”

“Bet you won’t.”

“Bet what?”

At first, Tory thought that was a dig. But Sam’s face was that same square-shape from the drinking contest. She was in.

“How about, if I cut it off, you can’t call me princess?”

“Easy,” said Tory. “You won’t though.”

It didn’t take long for Sam to find a first aid kit.

~

When one of the moderators came to fetch them, Tory was feeling giddy. The march back to the floor was quick, both Sam and Tory practically skipping. The crowd hadn’t thinned in the fifteen-minute time-out, but their energy was somehow more tense.

Kreese immediately snatched at Tory’s shoulder as they walked out, tugging her into the huddle with the other cobras. Kyler’s eyes were wide and confused on Sam just beyond them proudly showing off her crude haircut, but everyone else was focused on her.

“You have another half hour,” said Kreese. "Bring her off defense, Nichols."

“Yeah, duh,” said Tory.

He stared at her.

“Sorry, but that’s literally always been the plan,” she explained. “Like, what did you think I’ve been trying to do?”

“You’ve been showing mercy, you brat—” snarled Silver. “If you wanted her off defense, you would get her off defense. Provoke her.”

“I mean, I’m throwing a lot of punches,” she said. “That’s provocative. Kicking and stuff.”

"Are you concussed?" asked Silver.

“Relax,” she said. “It’s a game.” Then she walked onto the mat.

~

Afterwards, while they changed out of their gis, Tory pushed Sam against the locker and held her arm steady to get a better look at the three-lines down her bicep.

“You really need to learn when to back down,” said Tory, half meaning it.

“Back down?” asked Sam. “You mean like this?”

Without warning she had Tory’s forearm gripped in both her hands and was twisting the skin in opposite directions.

“Ow, what the fuck!” Tory hissed.

Sam bent over laughing.

“Are you serious?” said Tory, rubbing her arm. “An Indian Burn? What’s the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Sam only laughed harder.

“The look on your face,” she gasped.

Tory grabbed her by her newly shorn hair, jagged edges digging into her palms, and kissed her.

“Yeah,” breathed Sam as they separated. “This explains a lot.”

#samtory

[theliterateape]

I Like to Watch | Cobra Kai Season 2

By Don Hall

“I don't know the story and I don't need to but I will say that the question should never be ‘can a fascist change?’ but ‘should a fascist be allowed to change?’ and the answer is ‘no.’” —Sara Bess (@achenesense) April 12, 2019

I’ve encountered this attitude before. When working with wrongfully accused death row inmates in Chicago (peripherally, as I was the boyfriend of a woman who was professionally invested in this work) I ran into plenty of people who saw no benefit to the idea of rehabilitation. For them, prison was about punishment and punishment was their concept of justice. These were the folks who would respond to a black man, tortured into a confession and imprisoned, by pointing out that if he had not been in a gang or had committed petty crimes before being picked up by the police, he wouldn’t be there to be tortured. That somehow, mistakes before meant that he deserved to be wrongfully accused, convicted, and sent away.

“I don’t know the story and I don’t need to but I will say that the question should never be ‘can a career criminal change?’ but ‘should a career criminal be allowed to change?’ and the answer is ‘no.’”

It seems that those most committed to the ideals of social justice and restorative justice aren’t looking for justice but revenge. No apology made for past mistakes is ever enough, no change of perspective is accepted or encouraged. Joe Biden’s apology to Anita Hill was a waste of his time because, of course, it could never be enough. Louis C.K.’s admission of guilt could never be accepted unless he was severely punished and not allowed to continue to perform. Jussie Smollett wisely withheld any admission of guilt or contrition because, in this paradigm, admission of guilt simply allows those strident Rage Profiteers another foot in the callout shame door.

To deny someone the permission to change is the utmost in hypocritical cruelty.

✶

Mentally traveling back in time to 1984, The Karate Kid was one of those stereotypical stories of unrepentant bullies, an outcast looking to find his place, and a mentor who provides a series of lessons that transforms the outcast into a hero of sorts (if confronting and ultimately beating your bullies makes one heroic). The outcast of the tale is Daniel LaRusso, the mentor is Mr. Miyagi, the unrepentant bully is Johnny Lawrence as guided by the 1980s avatar of venomous masculinity, John Kreese.

In the cesspool that is nostalgia, it’s fine to lounge right there. Good Guy. Bad Guy. Good Mentor. Bad Mentor. A tournament and the Light side of the Force wins.

Translating that story into the world of real humans is more complicated. People grow up and out of their indoctrination. Others die along the way. Some lose so much in their life that the venom and hate festers indefinitely. And others try to reclaim their faded glory, like wearing an ill-fitting T-shirt or buying a car that was popular in his youth only to discover that the glory he had was based on the worst impulses of humanity and has to make choices to change.

YouTube Red’s Cobra Kai Season 1 is fun. We are reintroduced to middle-aged versions of Daniel and Johnny and how that one crazy kick in the face changed their lives. Daniel is a successful owner of a car dealership with a beautiful wife, two children, and all the trappings of modern success. Johnny, on the other hand, has a broken marriage, an estranged son who hates him, and a chip on his shoulder that has developed into a resentment from thirty years ago that has taken over his soul. Both rely on the past to define their present (Daniel still uses that kick to market his car dealership, Johnny still wears Motley True T-shirts and refuses to buy into any technology created after 1990) but the perspective has changed for us. This is no longer Daniel’s story but Johnny’s.

The first season indulged in the Gen X joy of revisiting those nostalgic moments and was so successful, they decided to do a second and, in extending the story for ten more episodes, dive into some truly profound territory.

William Zabka is never going to be any list of great actors but he rises to the occasion in this season. Johnny is chock full of conflict. His views on what makes someone tough is rooted in the strident Cobra Kai mantra: Strike First • Strike Hard • No Mercy and seeing the consequences of that mantra in his students is making him seriously doubt its wisdom. The final shot of Season 1 is the reintroduction of his former sensei, John Kreese (Martin Kove), and his presence underscores the epitome of that mantra and likewise provides Johnny with a real life example of the kind of person he used to be but doesn’t want to be anymore.

On top of that, Johnny is in almost every sense a throwback to the eighties. So enamored of that decade is he that he has adopted almost none of the trappings of life post-1985 — he doesn’t have a clue about the internet, he barely understands smartphones, he buys a Dodge Challenger because it’s badass. At one point, his prize student sets him up on Tinder:

Miguel:

OK. The app is downloaded. What kind of women are you looking for?

Super hot babes. Dumb question. Okay, what are your likes?

Johnny:

My likes? What am I supposed to say? Long walks on the beach? I like muscle cars, martial arts, and Iron Eagle. And Iron Eagle II.

Why aren’t you texting this down? Computer dating was your idea.

Miguel:

Look, you have to take this seriously.

Johnny:

It used to be simple. Find a chick in a bar. Bump into her hard, but not too hard. Pretty hard. Then you buy her a beer.

Miguel:

No.

Johnny:

Tried and true, Diaz. That’s how the cavemen did it. Cavemen. That’s another like. Like the ones in those insurance commercials.

Miguel:

[sighs] I think I can fill the rest out on my own. What about clothes? What are you wearing?

Johnny:

You gonna teach me about fashion now?

Miguel:

Might have to.

Later, he goes on a series of dates:

While the series has its funny moments, the themes presented are of a middle-aged man struggling with the embedded concepts of masculine strength, the grey areas between notions of good and bad behavior, the questions of intent versus impact, and ultimately the effort it takes to change. It’s a difficult road for Johnny Lawrence and in many ways he is asking himself the same Sara Bess query: Is Johnny Lawrence even allowed to change?

Daniel has his struggles as well. His desire to put his high school nemesis back down, to not allow him to change, puts his business and his marriage in peril. He is so focused on making sure Cobra Kai doesn’t resurge, he loses sight of everything Mr. Miyagi taught him in the first place: Karate is about defense not offense. In his quest to keep Johnny punished for what he was thirty years prior, no apology offered matters as his agenda is a continued banishment for someone who abused him.

Perhaps I enjoyed this season so much because it is about two men my age dealing with their past and trying to make sense of it all and carve out a place for themselves in an ever-changing culture. Like Johnny, I still listen to the music of my youth, still think most of the films of my day are funny, and value the presence of strength and resolve over weakness and complaint. Like Daniel, I sometimes lose sight of the things that are actually important in the wake of my sense of personal justice.

I don’t know if anyone but someone my age would dig this show but if you want a little insight to the Gen Xers around you, take a few hours and soak it in. If you are a Gen Xer? Watch this shit, it’s badass. Like a Dodge Challenger.

✶

“I don't know the story and I don't need to but I will say that the question should never be ‘can a fascist change?’ but ‘should a fascist be allowed to change?’ and the answer is ‘no.’" —Sara Bess (@achenesense) April 12, 2019

I don't know the story and I don't need to but I will say that the question should never be "can a bigot change?" but "should a bigot be allowed to change?" and the answer is "no."

I don't know the story and I don't need to but I will say that the question should never be "can a masturbating comic change?" but "should a masturbating comic be allowed to change?" and the answer is "no."

I don't know the story and I don't need to but I will say that the question should never be "can a homophobe change?" but "should a homophobe be allowed to change?" and the answer is "no."

Sara? You’re dead wrong. Not only can people change but it isn’t up to you and the nattering class of self-appointed Keepers of the Wokeness to decide who is allowed to change. Trust me. In thirty years, you might find your Johnny Lawrence moment and struggle with new mores imposed by your children’s children and maybe you’ll entrench and maybe you’ll change but it isn’t up to anyone but you if you do.

Strike First • Strike Hard • No Mercy is a shitty way to live.

#I Like to Watch #Cobra Kai Season 2 #Johnny Lawrence #Daniel LaRusso #Ralph Macchio #William Zabka