okay listen creepy dude, just because i have a couple of tattoos, no, that doesn't mean that i want to hear your naked-bondage-lady-experience-and-subsequent-backpiece-tattoo story. that story is creepy, and you're like seventy years old. i just want to get into the bathroom and pee. please stop talking to me. no, i don't know rudy mapleton from new westminster who does tae kwon do. what the fuck kind of question is that. how are people seriously named rudy.
i hate having tattoos. the most common anti-tattoo talking point is "well they'll look silly when you're old and wrinkled !" but hey dummy, EVERYONE looks silly and wrinkled when they get old. and what a silly thing to say anyway because if you wanna see your future you may have to pay a price. because you may look in there and see how you're gonna die ! you may look in there and see what you're gonna look like when you're OLD and ROTTEN and SHRIVELED and MEAN and THROUGH !
you want a real argument against getting tattoos ? you want to get serious about stopping someone from getting tattoos ? mention all the fucking retards you'll have to talk to about tattoos. "hey bud, wherrd uhhhh.... wherrdja getcher paint ? hurrrrrrrrr.."
and i mean, there's no winning that conversation. you're not coming out on top in THAT one, are you kidding me ?! "oh, a friend of mine does my--"
"yeah man i got this one back home. pretty bitchin huh."
oh sure, yeah, totally bitchin. your quality-control-by-a-sleeping-retard tattoo is totally fucking bitchin. sure yeah man, tell me some more about it even though my body language is screaming my total disinterest in anything to do with you. oh yeah ? you've got big plans for a sleeve ? cool, i bet that'll fucking suck too ! hey here's a fun idea: why don't you take a hike, jerk.
20 April 2011
19 April 2011
i've been on layover in bangkok for two hours and i'm already going stir-crazy despite filling the time with eating and reading and other general debauchery. charging my ipod because for some reason it just decided not to charge when i plugged it in last night. ain't that some shit.
i'm excited to play some video games and excited to do some jiu jitsu but otherwise maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan come ON. i just ate horrendously bad soup that i paid three times what i would have for the good version back in rawai. hey fucking rubbery airport chicken and overcooked noodles: fuck you. you're bullshit. someone do me a favour and put me on a nice beach with sand so fine it feels like walking in pudding and some a them big noisy waves that crash loudly on a wall of large rocks. and the beach has an arcade and a BJJ gym. bring da mufuckin ruckus.
i'm excited to play some video games and excited to do some jiu jitsu but otherwise maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan come ON. i just ate horrendously bad soup that i paid three times what i would have for the good version back in rawai. hey fucking rubbery airport chicken and overcooked noodles: fuck you. you're bullshit. someone do me a favour and put me on a nice beach with sand so fine it feels like walking in pudding and some a them big noisy waves that crash loudly on a wall of large rocks. and the beach has an arcade and a BJJ gym. bring da mufuckin ruckus.
18 April 2011
"knee !" i drive one in there, and follow it with an elbow. "oh heeeey." oron says, but i can tell he doesn't mean it. he drifts over and leans in the corner, arms resting on the ropes, wearing a look of concern.
"riree. why no boom-boom."
oron harassed me to fight from the first day i got here (and continued even after i agreed to it) and has been harassing me to fuck the girls for just as long.
"what ? fuck man, i dunno," i put my fists back up, hoping he will put up the pads in response. he does for a 1-2, then drops them again.
"you maybe... ladyboi ?" he asks, and smilingly points at my pink skirt-shorts. then the smile fades and he raises a serious eyebrow.
i sigh and drop my hands. "no oron, not a ladyboi," i assure him for... i have no idea at this point how many times i've assured him i'm not a ladyboi. the number is astronomical. "i'm ugly as a woman," i add helpfully.
he nods solemnly at this undeniable truth, taking this information in like a therapist looking for the heart of the problem.
"you like ladyboi." he concludes.
i feel like frustratedly dropping my hands in mock-surrender to his obtuseness, but they are already hanging lifeless from having done this just a second ago. i pick them up just so i can drop them again, a gesture that surely must have looked as silly and ineffectual as it felt.
"you like... boy ?" he asks, his brow furrowed.
"i ain't tryin to get after none of that," i tell him.
"WOT." he quips, and mugs for the camera. the live studio audience roars their approval and shouts of "ORON !" sound from various spots in the crowd. a regular bud bundy, this motherfucker.
"no." i clarify, and when his brow clears its worry i elaborate, "straight talk homie: all i want is bitches-- big booty bitches. and if i gotta choose a coast, i gotta choose the east."
"WOT." he demands again, and the crowd stomps and applauds in a frenzy of delight.
"girls ! good !"
he loses it. "THEN WHY NO BOOM-BOOM !" he slaps my shoulder hard with his thai pad and mean-mugs me. "YOU HANDSOME MAN ! YOU LOOK BRAD PITT ! WHY NO BOOM-BOOM !" i suggest to him that his comparisions might be something of a misrepresentation on the order of saying the moon and sun are the same temperature because they're both round.
all the while i'm wondering how i am supposed to explain to this guy who speaks maybe 200 words of english my concerns about the morality of coming to an extremely poor country and fucking women for moeny ? then i can't help but wonder if it's morally any less repugnant than beating up some poor part-time fighter who's fighting me for money to feed his family ? i'm not one to sit here and judge what anyone does for familial obligation/a living and i won't deny that my biases against prostitution are rooted almost entirely in cultural customs i almost entirely don't relate or subscribe to otherwise. i'm having a hard time, i don't want to say rationalizing (although that's probably the most honest word for it), but justifying to myself these differences and why one form of taking advantage of those economically depressed is morally sound while others are not (and i'm not trying to build a case to use later for seeing prostitutes)... not so easy to untangle i guess.
the whistle blew to end the round, the last on the pads. "too much talking you." oron says, and shakes his head while pointing at me. the audience laughs and someone yells "ORON !"
"riree. why no boom-boom."
oron harassed me to fight from the first day i got here (and continued even after i agreed to it) and has been harassing me to fuck the girls for just as long.
"what ? fuck man, i dunno," i put my fists back up, hoping he will put up the pads in response. he does for a 1-2, then drops them again.
"you maybe... ladyboi ?" he asks, and smilingly points at my pink skirt-shorts. then the smile fades and he raises a serious eyebrow.
i sigh and drop my hands. "no oron, not a ladyboi," i assure him for... i have no idea at this point how many times i've assured him i'm not a ladyboi. the number is astronomical. "i'm ugly as a woman," i add helpfully.
he nods solemnly at this undeniable truth, taking this information in like a therapist looking for the heart of the problem.
"you like ladyboi." he concludes.
i feel like frustratedly dropping my hands in mock-surrender to his obtuseness, but they are already hanging lifeless from having done this just a second ago. i pick them up just so i can drop them again, a gesture that surely must have looked as silly and ineffectual as it felt.
"you like... boy ?" he asks, his brow furrowed.
"i ain't tryin to get after none of that," i tell him.
"WOT." he quips, and mugs for the camera. the live studio audience roars their approval and shouts of "ORON !" sound from various spots in the crowd. a regular bud bundy, this motherfucker.
"no." i clarify, and when his brow clears its worry i elaborate, "straight talk homie: all i want is bitches-- big booty bitches. and if i gotta choose a coast, i gotta choose the east."
"WOT." he demands again, and the crowd stomps and applauds in a frenzy of delight.
"girls ! good !"
he loses it. "THEN WHY NO BOOM-BOOM !" he slaps my shoulder hard with his thai pad and mean-mugs me. "YOU HANDSOME MAN ! YOU LOOK BRAD PITT ! WHY NO BOOM-BOOM !" i suggest to him that his comparisions might be something of a misrepresentation on the order of saying the moon and sun are the same temperature because they're both round.
all the while i'm wondering how i am supposed to explain to this guy who speaks maybe 200 words of english my concerns about the morality of coming to an extremely poor country and fucking women for moeny ? then i can't help but wonder if it's morally any less repugnant than beating up some poor part-time fighter who's fighting me for money to feed his family ? i'm not one to sit here and judge what anyone does for familial obligation/a living and i won't deny that my biases against prostitution are rooted almost entirely in cultural customs i almost entirely don't relate or subscribe to otherwise. i'm having a hard time, i don't want to say rationalizing (although that's probably the most honest word for it), but justifying to myself these differences and why one form of taking advantage of those economically depressed is morally sound while others are not (and i'm not trying to build a case to use later for seeing prostitutes)... not so easy to untangle i guess.
the whistle blew to end the round, the last on the pads. "too much talking you." oron says, and shakes his head while pointing at me. the audience laughs and someone yells "ORON !"
14 April 2011
11 April 2011
the relief of having fought is even more considerable than what i imagined it would be. unburdened. in terms of improving as a fighter, the experience was vital and necessary on a level i had vastly underestimated. between the nerves and pace and competition, it really is the next level of the game. i will need to do some BJJ tournaments in the future, definitely. but for now: a couple days of pizza, booze and desserts. welcome to the party zone.
09 April 2011
things are a lot different once you're in there.
as i said, my biggest fear was that technique would fall apart and i'd gas in a minute, and technique did go out the window to some degree. the timing and rhythm of everything felt so much different than they do sparring, and my first thought once the fight started was "hey this guy is actually trying to hurt me !" without an ounce of that ironic humour the young people nowadays like so much.
but i should start more at the start. or at the beginning of relevance at least.
it was lying on the table getting oiled up when the fear really set in.
"don't be scared homie don't be scared homie don't be scared homie" i tried mantraing at myself but even nick diaz wisdom wasn't cutting it.
i'd gotten my hands taped a half hour earlier, and sat with fede and chris distractedly watching as carlos handily dismantled his opponent. i'd felt keyed up and excited at that point.
but this fucking oil-down, christ. it burned my flesh wherever they put it, and they put it everywhere. it felt like wearing a suit made of bee stings. i had thought wolf was joking when he mentioned they gave him a little flick on the balls with it, but i remembered that wolf was no comedian just as i got the bad news. "who thought this was a good idea and why." i wondered aloud, and was greeted with a number of "WOT"s from around the table. even the studio audience understood the gravity of the situation, though, and let the fact of my fiery balls pass with only a brief outburst of laughter and hooting. gloves are tied onto my taped hands.
oh fuck, the taping. i have a half-inch thick wad of hard athletic tape on the end of each fist, locked on in a cast of gauze and more tape.
"shadowbox shadowbox," oron urged as i slid off the table. okay, i think, shadowboxing. which one is shadowboxing again. it eventually comes to me and i slide around on my oiled feet, trying to keep my balance as i throw jabs at nothing. my quads feel like they're cramping
to useless; i flex them and stretch them but they're just locked tight.
what the FUCK am i DOING alarms go off in my head. all the mental defenses i've set up in case of this eventuality:
-stay calm !
-you traveled across the world specifically for this.
-you just need to touch this guy to hurt him.
-once you get hit and are aware of the fight you'll be fine.
-YOU LOVE FIGHTING.
do nothing.
i panic a little and consider outright desertion. i've got money in my bag; there's taxis right outside. just bail man. just get out of here. no problem. walk out the door. anyone tries to stop you, BAM. right in the mouth. the contradiction of how i wouldn't think twice about popping someone in the chops for trying to stop me from running away from a fight is what saves me. i tell myself the dude i'm fighting is the only guy who's really trying to stop me from leaving tonight, so i just need to pop him one, right in the ol kisser, because this guy, i mean, what a dick, you know ?
the fight before mine is a couple of thais. dee comes to tell me it's time to go to the ring as their fight nears its time limit. as i walk down the stairs to the ring, it's not bad enough that my feet are coated in oil and my sandals don't really fit anyway. now my legs are in open revolt; my quads quiver and my calves tremble like i'm getting electrocuted. i try to hold the hand-railing, knowing full well that if i don't there's a solid chance that i'm going to go tumbling down these stairs. oh hi boxing glove, i greet the forgotten hand-encombrance, i see we're doing this the hard way.
i get to the bottom of the stairs without incident (beyond hilarious granny-driving-a-car lack of speed) somehow. i sit in a chair in my cape waiting to fight. i struggle to breathe; trying to do breathing exercises fails because i feel like i'm going to pass out every time i hold air in for even a second. i settle for just breathing as deeply and as slowly as possible.
people talk to me. it's all confusing; i don't understand what any of them say even though they're talking english. i smile and say "right." "sure." "oh yeah ?" at the times it feels appropriate to say those things. i'm encouraged that i'm able to do this right now because it means that all the years of practice have ingrained the ability and made it easy to perform while under mental strain. please fists, do the same, i say to them.
the fight ends. one thai has won a decision, the other has lost. i squishily walk to the ring, calves and quads laughing and demanding to know if this is some sort of joke. the burning of my flesh has subsided somewhat, but the skin is also curious to know if i'm kidding here.
i guess i'm not because i get into the ring.
well i mean, that's not fair.
i AM joking in a lot of ways. or at least i'm in on the joke.
this is fucking ridiculous and anyone who says otherwise is just fooling themself. i'm a man in a foreign country and i'm going to fight some guy for strange, probably comical reasons. i've never even met him for god's sake. of COURSE i'm joking.
i'm just serious as well.
i walk around the ring, stop at the corners, tell myself to fight smart but hard and to stay calm. the ref calls us to the middle, grabs both of our cups and shakes them in the traditional referee's greeting, and starts the contest.
"hey this guy is actually trying to hurt me !" i realize, as he stomps a front kick at me. the fight is fast both because of my mental state and the fact that this guy's goal is to leave me unconscious. it takes me a minute or two to get the timing and rhythm right at this speed; every time i attack him he dives into a clinch with me. after this happens a few times i'm able to time him coming in with a hook that staggers him, then drive home a knee that finishes the night.
"go over, go over," oron reminds me as he raises my hand to the crowd.
for the last month, every time i've gotten in the ring or out of the ring, oron has had me do the ol' "fall over the top rope" gag that he does after his fights. the trainers LOVE this for some reason, and laugh with hearty guffaws at its proper performance. oh yeah, only when you perform it properly-- i'll tell you something which may be surprising to you, perhaps you are unaware of slapstick comedy ? i don't know the answer to that question, so i'll just assume it's "yes i am unaware," so i'll tell you that there is a technique to this fall, just like there is a technique to anything done well. if you don't commit to it you just leave the audience cold, thinking, "who does this guy think he is, wasting my time here with his amateur-hour novelty shit." but if you dive too hard on it then you spill out into the crowd, which when you're covered in sweat and burning oil and the general grime of battle, is unacceptable apparently. plus how embarrassing and unforgivable would it be to get injured not actually in a fight, but being a fucking jerkoff directly afterward ?
"woah dude you broke your leg ? was that in your fight ??"
"uhhh... not exactly..."
so for the last month i've dedicated myself to learning this art, and i think when it comes down to it, last night, that fall is the only thing i performed with excellent technique until much later when, after getting celebration wasted, danced the night away.
as i said, my biggest fear was that technique would fall apart and i'd gas in a minute, and technique did go out the window to some degree. the timing and rhythm of everything felt so much different than they do sparring, and my first thought once the fight started was "hey this guy is actually trying to hurt me !" without an ounce of that ironic humour the young people nowadays like so much.
but i should start more at the start. or at the beginning of relevance at least.
it was lying on the table getting oiled up when the fear really set in.
"don't be scared homie don't be scared homie don't be scared homie" i tried mantraing at myself but even nick diaz wisdom wasn't cutting it.
i'd gotten my hands taped a half hour earlier, and sat with fede and chris distractedly watching as carlos handily dismantled his opponent. i'd felt keyed up and excited at that point.
but this fucking oil-down, christ. it burned my flesh wherever they put it, and they put it everywhere. it felt like wearing a suit made of bee stings. i had thought wolf was joking when he mentioned they gave him a little flick on the balls with it, but i remembered that wolf was no comedian just as i got the bad news. "who thought this was a good idea and why." i wondered aloud, and was greeted with a number of "WOT"s from around the table. even the studio audience understood the gravity of the situation, though, and let the fact of my fiery balls pass with only a brief outburst of laughter and hooting. gloves are tied onto my taped hands.
oh fuck, the taping. i have a half-inch thick wad of hard athletic tape on the end of each fist, locked on in a cast of gauze and more tape.
"shadowbox shadowbox," oron urged as i slid off the table. okay, i think, shadowboxing. which one is shadowboxing again. it eventually comes to me and i slide around on my oiled feet, trying to keep my balance as i throw jabs at nothing. my quads feel like they're cramping
to useless; i flex them and stretch them but they're just locked tight.
what the FUCK am i DOING alarms go off in my head. all the mental defenses i've set up in case of this eventuality:
-stay calm !
-you traveled across the world specifically for this.
-you just need to touch this guy to hurt him.
-once you get hit and are aware of the fight you'll be fine.
-YOU LOVE FIGHTING.
do nothing.
i panic a little and consider outright desertion. i've got money in my bag; there's taxis right outside. just bail man. just get out of here. no problem. walk out the door. anyone tries to stop you, BAM. right in the mouth. the contradiction of how i wouldn't think twice about popping someone in the chops for trying to stop me from running away from a fight is what saves me. i tell myself the dude i'm fighting is the only guy who's really trying to stop me from leaving tonight, so i just need to pop him one, right in the ol kisser, because this guy, i mean, what a dick, you know ?
the fight before mine is a couple of thais. dee comes to tell me it's time to go to the ring as their fight nears its time limit. as i walk down the stairs to the ring, it's not bad enough that my feet are coated in oil and my sandals don't really fit anyway. now my legs are in open revolt; my quads quiver and my calves tremble like i'm getting electrocuted. i try to hold the hand-railing, knowing full well that if i don't there's a solid chance that i'm going to go tumbling down these stairs. oh hi boxing glove, i greet the forgotten hand-encombrance, i see we're doing this the hard way.
i get to the bottom of the stairs without incident (beyond hilarious granny-driving-a-car lack of speed) somehow. i sit in a chair in my cape waiting to fight. i struggle to breathe; trying to do breathing exercises fails because i feel like i'm going to pass out every time i hold air in for even a second. i settle for just breathing as deeply and as slowly as possible.
people talk to me. it's all confusing; i don't understand what any of them say even though they're talking english. i smile and say "right." "sure." "oh yeah ?" at the times it feels appropriate to say those things. i'm encouraged that i'm able to do this right now because it means that all the years of practice have ingrained the ability and made it easy to perform while under mental strain. please fists, do the same, i say to them.
the fight ends. one thai has won a decision, the other has lost. i squishily walk to the ring, calves and quads laughing and demanding to know if this is some sort of joke. the burning of my flesh has subsided somewhat, but the skin is also curious to know if i'm kidding here.
i guess i'm not because i get into the ring.
well i mean, that's not fair.
i AM joking in a lot of ways. or at least i'm in on the joke.
this is fucking ridiculous and anyone who says otherwise is just fooling themself. i'm a man in a foreign country and i'm going to fight some guy for strange, probably comical reasons. i've never even met him for god's sake. of COURSE i'm joking.
i'm just serious as well.
i walk around the ring, stop at the corners, tell myself to fight smart but hard and to stay calm. the ref calls us to the middle, grabs both of our cups and shakes them in the traditional referee's greeting, and starts the contest.
"hey this guy is actually trying to hurt me !" i realize, as he stomps a front kick at me. the fight is fast both because of my mental state and the fact that this guy's goal is to leave me unconscious. it takes me a minute or two to get the timing and rhythm right at this speed; every time i attack him he dives into a clinch with me. after this happens a few times i'm able to time him coming in with a hook that staggers him, then drive home a knee that finishes the night.
"go over, go over," oron reminds me as he raises my hand to the crowd.
for the last month, every time i've gotten in the ring or out of the ring, oron has had me do the ol' "fall over the top rope" gag that he does after his fights. the trainers LOVE this for some reason, and laugh with hearty guffaws at its proper performance. oh yeah, only when you perform it properly-- i'll tell you something which may be surprising to you, perhaps you are unaware of slapstick comedy ? i don't know the answer to that question, so i'll just assume it's "yes i am unaware," so i'll tell you that there is a technique to this fall, just like there is a technique to anything done well. if you don't commit to it you just leave the audience cold, thinking, "who does this guy think he is, wasting my time here with his amateur-hour novelty shit." but if you dive too hard on it then you spill out into the crowd, which when you're covered in sweat and burning oil and the general grime of battle, is unacceptable apparently. plus how embarrassing and unforgivable would it be to get injured not actually in a fight, but being a fucking jerkoff directly afterward ?
"woah dude you broke your leg ? was that in your fight ??"
"uhhh... not exactly..."
so for the last month i've dedicated myself to learning this art, and i think when it comes down to it, last night, that fall is the only thing i performed with excellent technique until much later when, after getting celebration wasted, danced the night away.
06 April 2011
i arrived at the gym today to a banner for the fights on friday.
a feeling i can only compare to a mushroom trip taking a wrong turn washed over me when i saw it; my ears started ringing and my stomach dropped away and oh god i've made a huge mistake and i'm going to get caught and everyone will know and i fucked up bad and there's no turning back now the threshold is breached and what is life anyway
it passed quickly, however. just another strange emotional response to this whole experience.
since after dinner i've been feeling a wonderful calm about this fight. i know i've put in hard work, and, victory or defeat, my only goal is to fight as hard as i can. i know i can do that, and i feel that i simply will do that because if i don't, it's the only way i can actually lose. i hope i can carry this feeling through the next two days.
a feeling i can only compare to a mushroom trip taking a wrong turn washed over me when i saw it; my ears started ringing and my stomach dropped away and oh god i've made a huge mistake and i'm going to get caught and everyone will know and i fucked up bad and there's no turning back now the threshold is breached and what is life anyway
it passed quickly, however. just another strange emotional response to this whole experience.
since after dinner i've been feeling a wonderful calm about this fight. i know i've put in hard work, and, victory or defeat, my only goal is to fight as hard as i can. i know i can do that, and i feel that i simply will do that because if i don't, it's the only way i can actually lose. i hope i can carry this feeling through the next two days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)