As a physically large man with an even temper and a propensity to be around bars, I found myself well-suited to the role of bouncer. I was a natural, and enjoyed the work until the constant stream of idiots and reprobates that made up the patronage of my bar wore down my will to live. It was in a relatively small town and the only place that had anything remotely festive happening during the week. Our Ladies night happened every Tuesday, and it brought jackasses aplenty without fail. They would all behave in the same annoying way and pull the same lame-ass stunts and tricks. The same angry roid-monkeys would start fights and the same jailbait high-school seniors would try to get in with the same fake IDs every week set to the same “My Humps”-heavy soundtrack. The sheer repetition was enough to make me start to hate them all, so I had to get out of the game.
Clublife gives you the bouncer’s pov, sharing all the frustrations and trenchant commentary that can only open on the inside of the velvet rope. Check it out. This is how it is.
I just caught last week’s Ultimate Fighter (thanks to DVR, I don’t miss an episode even if it takes me a while to get caught up sometimes) and I think this season has the wackiest bunch of misfit fighters yet. I’m sure it has something to do with them being lightweights and constantly feeling like they have to prove how tough they are to the world but these guys come off like total wackjobs. Please note: I recognize that they are very tough hombres, I’m just saying there seems to be a lot of unnecessary posturing.
I’m thinking especially of Corey here. Passion and inner drive are great; I would even go so far as to say they are vital tools for anyone who calls himself a fighter. But (note to Corey Hill) you can be passionate and fired up without looking like a complete and utter raving lunatic. He’s running around practice screaming and yelling to himself, entering some kind of weird berserker rage for no apparent reason. I realize that this is a reality show, and to a certain degree I’m sure he was cast precisely for his brash personality and not his experience. And I know they need people like him to liven up the show, but I was distinctly turned off. He is a tremendous athlete, and if Jeremy Horn is impressed with his chops as a learner, I can’t argue with that. I think the ability to absorb coaching and internalize techniques quickly is more important than natural ability, and it looks like Corey has both. He just needs to calm the fuck down before he steps into the octagon. I’ve trained with fighters like him before, and they can have a tendency to huff and puff and psych themselves up so much that they lose focus in the hurly-burly.
The other notable craziness of the episode revolved around good ole Gabe trying to shed his extra chub before he has to fight. I don’t understand why these fighters come in to the show so heavy when they know they are going to have to get down to their weight class. Again, I have to wonder if Dana White recruits these guys on purpose so that those of us out there in TV Land get to watch the madness when they frantically try to cut weight. Gabe Ruediger turned to colonic therapy. He took some serious flack for wanting to lose weight by having a water hose shoved up his nether region and I probably would have mocked him mercilessly if I had been in the house. His coach Bj Penn didn’t really seem to understand the whole thing and was pretty dumbfounded. The assistant coach (whose name escapes me) gave Gabe a talking to, telling him that he doubted his commitment. Questioning whether he came on the show to get a contract or to get a colonic. I think that was specious reasoning on his part, as the two things were not mutually exclusive and I highly doubt that Gabe decided to go on SpikeTV in some sort of scheme to get a free colon cleaning. But I also don’t think having a guyser of water run through your lower bowels is the most effective weight loss strategy. What ever happened to jolly ranchers and saunas?
It looks David Fucking Mamet is making a movie about mixed martial arts in L.A. I cannot wait for this cock-sucking movie. I love fighting, I love movies, and I love profanity. Prediction: high fuck count, lots of tough talk. Aside from the writers of Deadwood, no one can wield an f-bomb like Mamet. I’ve been on a Mamet kick ever since watching House of Games a while ago and it looks like I have something else to look forward to.
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I don’t know how many people out there are watching the new season of The Ultimate Fighter on SpikeTV, but it is on the second episode of the fifth season and I am getting sick of these sorry jokers already. All the fighters are in the Lightweight class, and that is a first for this show. I’m sure they are all badasses but they are collectively getting on my nerves faster than any reality show contestant before them, and I am laid back dude. Not only are they all out to prove how tough they are (a prerequisite for most men of napoleonic stature that is only intensified by being on a fighting show) but they seem incapable of wearing a hat in the proper manner. I know how fussy and nitpicky that sounds but there it is. I’m not saying they have to wear their hats bill forward in the customary manner of baseball players and Nascar fans. I can get behind a hat worn backwards, but these bozos wear theirs at highly unlikely angles. In every interview they give, their bills are all askew, askance, cock-eyed, helter-skelter, or willy-nilly. I want to reach through the screen and rotate their hats to a less distracting angle. Am I alone in this?
If you’re in the Bay Area, and would like to see man who specializes in grappling and kicking try to fight without doing either one:
Who’s that handsome fella there at the bottom? He looks like a bad ass. Seriously though, this is my first attempt at flat-out boxing and it should be entertaining. I’m not a very good boxer. I have short arms and while my punching mechanics are good, I tire easily so I’m likely to take at least a medium-size beating. Come along, won’t you?
The reason why I posted the greatest Survivor song of all time in prose form earlier this week is this. I have recently signed up for a boxing bootcamp, and am rising way earlier than a normal person should to train for an hour-and-a-half before work. My body is adjusting to the shock of exercise. I haven’t really exerted myself since relocating to the West Coast, and a serious workout is long over due. The time has come for me to cast off the oh-so-comfortable lethargy of the last few months and once again become a pugilist. Sedentary no more! Despite my fighting career, I am a horrible striker and know very little about the sweet science. As a grappler, my strategy was usually to get punched in the face repeatedly until I could take down my opponent and ground and pound. It worked, but tended to mar my movie-star good looks for a few days.
This bootcamp is ideal for me, because it assumes a very basic level of boxing knowledge and focuses more on fundamentals and fitness. The workouts are good, but not too intense. I’m no Jack Dempsey, but I’m getting better. If only I could find a way to lengthen my arms and improve my reach, I would be unstoppable. As it is, I’ve been compared to everything from a Tyranasaurus Rex to a bulldog. Fierce and mighty creatures, to be sure, but hampered by a lack of arm length. Imagine the sheer lethal carnage that a T-Rex with long arms could cause. But I digress.
I admit the running is the hardest part for me. Even in the best of shape, I was a horrible runner. Slow and labored. And now when I do I can’t get “Eye of the Tiger” out of my head.
Dun. Dun Dun Dun. Dun Dun Dun. Dun Dun DUN…
Rising up back on the street, I did my time and took my chances. I went the distance and now I’m back on my feet: just a man and his will to survive. So many times it happens too fast. You trade your passion for glory, but don’t lose your grip on the dreams of the past. You must fight just to keep them alive.
Face to face out in the heat, I’m hanging tough and staying hungry. They stack the odds, but still we take to the street for the kill, with the skill to survive. Because I’m rising up. Straight to the top, because I had the guts, and so got the glory. I went the distance, and now I’m not going to stop. I’m just a man and his will to survive.
It’s the Eye of the Tiger, my friends. It’s the thrill of the fight, rising up to the challenge of our rival. And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night. He’s watching us all.
With the Eye of the Tiger
Rant/ This past weekend, I hit the road. I journeyed to Santa Rosa in search of cathartic violence and the (vicarious) thrill of the fight at Caged Combat. All in all, I don’t think its an event I’ll be returning to any time soon. The fights were all pretty good, as near as I could tell. The venue was piss poor. The cage was not very high, and the seating was on level ground. All of that wouldn’t be too bad, except the promoters hadn’t seen fit to shell out the extra dough for a screen on which people could watch the action when the fight rolled out of view (which was often). As it was, unless you had ringside seats it was next to impossible to see the action when the fight went to the ground. Anyone who has ever seen a mixed martial arts fight knows that the ground is where most of the action is. Frustrating me further was the fact that I had bought floor seats, since the ticketmaster floor plan made it look much more attractive than the bleachers. Turns out, the bleachers had the best view. But it really didn’t matter, because once you were in the door, nobody checked your ticket for anything. People who paid for bleacher tickets could sit on the floor, poor schmucks like me who paid (almost double!) for floor tickets could sit in the bleachers. And none of us could see the fights. \rant