This post is a testimony of my recollections surrounding what took place in a local bar & grill on the evening of July 14, 2015, when a resident named Tim “Herb” Mullen—in the company of fiancée Michelle Suderman—approached me surreptitiously from behind and delivered a roundhouse forearm to my throat, knocking me backwards to the concrete floor from the height of a barstool.
Injuries sustained were a bruised windpipe and bruised ribs on the upper back. While initially—the first day following—the windpipe inflammation and phlegm production were the most difficult, making breathing labored and swallowing painful, it’s morphed into where the bruised ribs are now the chief discomfort. Every cough to clear a sore throat is met with stabbing pain, many movements are similarly painful, and sleep is less than restful. Indications are that this will run a 3-week course or so, until the ribs have healed.
I recorded a video testimony at 6 a.m. the following morning. There’s a number of Zacatitans who’re just certain they know all about me, never having met me or exchanged any values with me, so I thought it important to put it in a video.
There’s one material element I hadn’t recollected at the time and will outline below the video. I’ll also explain what transpired prior to the assault. But keep in mind, this post is primarily the video. If you make any judgment or comment without watching it, you’re doing so on a small bit of the info and risk being called on it.. For example, how come I didn’t retaliate? How about my awareness? How about Presence of Mind?
What I didn’t recollect when I recorded the video…
At the point where Herb, sitting across the table, stands up, leans forward, and smacks me across the face, and I left the table and went to the bar—while he was yelling at me the whole way that I ‘need to leave Zacatitos, don’t belong here,’—I replied, “you’re lucky I didn’t toss you over the side.” The bar is on an open 2nd floor level. This was met by a howl of outrage from Michelle (‘yea, sure, right’ outrage—not ‘you wouldn’t dare’ outrage). But note that this was no threat. It was boastful at worst. In fact, I wasn’t being facetious. I spent over a year training on the deadlift (amongst other compound lifts) at 50 years old, and built up to 325 pounds for 5 reps, followed by 300 pounds for another five. Here’s a video of me doing two sets, at 305 and 275 (the first time I broke 300). Here’s standing shoulder press at 115 for 10 (bump only on last two reps). Standing presses are nothing like bench.
My only point in bringing that up is that this sort of thing is not TV or movies (as I stress in the video). Depending upon one’s background in training CNS to allow increasing levels of compound explosive movement (deadlift perhaps being the gold standard), you can get to a point where you can enlist muscular groups in explosive surges that don’t normally do that unless you train for it. Laf if you like or, get to Googling. You’re better advised, I think, to save it for the gym and not end up in a Mexican jail doing something explosively that injures someone for life, or worse.
The other reason for bringing it up is to undercut Michelle’s howl of protest that’s clearly misplaced. Pretty objective that I could absolutely have done him grave damage, had I lacked the self-control he does.
How this came about…
As near as I can tell, this unravelled because of unbridled hypersensitivity on the part of Michelle, combined with a relationship dynamic with Herb where, by my estimation, he’s way out of her league in terms of basal attractiveness. She’s a very reasonably attractive 40-something, I’d guess; and he, a misfit 60-something (maybe late 50s).
As I recount in the video, this went from perhaps playing out just fine, to rapid escalation once—in trying to explain—Michelle chastised me for being a misogynist because she’s a woman and I didn’t remember her very common name, while I did remember Herb’s more uncommon name. I had the distinct sense I was dealing with someone who learned a new word…and until she gets bored with it or perceives too many people rolling their eyes, misogyny is her hammer-word and everything is a nail. The thing is that I never submit or cowtow to that sort of child-like exuberance, nor do I bow on a threat (which was assault) from the boyfriend who, lacking other social skills, nonetheless minimally knows what’s good for him and his bed.
…In terms of what brought this all about, I just got tired of seeing 1+1=3 bullshit on the Zac FB group about weather, for the sole purpose of getting “Like.” It’s gone from the old bromide of “say something nice, or don’t say anything at all”—fodder for submissive servants—to ‘click Like or kiss my ass in comments, or don’t comment at all.’ In many ways, the Zac FB group is reminiscent of a soccer-mom American suburb, dropped onto Baja Sur.
I call it The Tyranny of “Like.” There needs to be a “Hate” button; or at least, a “Dislike.” Otherwise, Yin has no date.
…Anyway, she posted some alarmist thing about a hurricane forming a thousand miles away, like about 15-20 will do this season, and where only 3 have ever hit Baja since the 1940’s when records have been kept, and none have ever hit in July. There are lots of meteorological reasons for this. So, I just posted some snarky thing about getting everyone riled up over nothing again (it was the same drill in the first week I was here, early June). Incidentally, that “threat” is long gone.
And that’s it. No other interactions I’m aware of except for the day before the altercation, where I simply posted an alternative translation from a Mexican meteorologist to the one she posted (mundane meteorology from National Hurricane Center isn’t good enough—this is Baja, see) with zero snark. Admittedly, her translation was stellar. Problem was, whether an FB glitch or my iPad, I didn’t see hers, but some paragraph-by-paragraph thing that was part of what she linked and wasn’t impressive. I had no idea she’s a professional translator, but, all I did was offer an alternative via Google translate.
In the chat session that followed, she explained that she’s a pro, and that no machine translations are needed. I encouraged her to use them as a starting template for technical stuff (not literature or poetry), and then make it hers. “Use all tools at your disposal,” I admonished. “I’d applaud you.”
Guess that get’s me a roundhouse to the neck.
In the end, I see Herb as a drunken fool presiding over a Sanford & Son junkyard. Michelle was the engineer of this.
Finally, how cowardly. Remember, when face to face, he dealt me a limp wrist to the face. Once my back was turned is when he turned it up. Coward; pretty plain and simple. Nonetheless, for the most part the equivocation will continue unabated in Zacatitos, I predict. After all, I say stuff on the Internet that gets panties all bunched up; so I surely had it coming. For, there is no greater sin on Earth than that of contributing to the bunching of pink panties.
Update: I’ve been made aware that Herb is a principal member of a popular local band, The Lost Dogs of Zacatitos. Makes one hell of a lot make more sense, and I’ll leave it at that.