Why Do I Love MMA So Much?

In recent years, I’ve grown an odd fascination with mixed martial arts. I’m hooked. I’m an unabashed fan who can get enough. I’ve spent what has probably amounted to too many hours contemplating exactly why I’m so absorbed by violent kicks to the head, swinging elbows to the jaw, arms and legs being bent in directions that God didn’t intend them to be. More often than not when my wife passes through a room in which I’m watching an MMA match, she’ll ask, “Why do you watch that stuff?” Typically, I start to mutter some kind of a reasonable explanation, only to usually end up slouching down in the couch and turning my head away to avoid the embarrassment she expresses on her face for being married to someone who takes joy in watching two men purposely seek to make one another bleed.

Still, among the those friends I have that share my appreciation for the sport, I’ve seldom felt a stronger kinship concerning some kind of like-minded interest, and that includes such passions I hold dear as kids, music, movies, writing, politics, golf, the Yankees, etc. When I’m talking the finer points of MMA with like-minded souls, I find myself blissfully content. When we’re analyzing upcoming matchups to nth degree by drawing comparisons to previous matches and shared opponents, the strength of a fighter’s ground game vs. his striking ability, or the merit of his jujitsu, I think to myself, “If only I could put this much thought into my own future.” The whole topic baffles me to no end.

That feeling only compounds when I realize that pretty much throughout my entire life, I’ve hated both being in fights and watching them. Even when the fights I’ve seen (and I witnessed too many for my taste) had some kind of justifiable element to them, in that one of the guys/girls had it coming, I’ve hated them. Even when I’ve had to fight due to some reason or another that I really believed in, the feeling that I’d rather be anywhere doing anything else has always been present. To this day, when I see some a physical confrontation occur, it sticks with me for days, and not in a good way. I remember vividly being in a cab years ago near Times Square. The cab in front of us screeched to a halt, only for the driver, a huge man, to jump out and sprint to the front of the limo stopped in front of him, which was being driven by an equally huge man. They two exchanged a few brief words and then set about pummeling each other in the middle of the street. To this day the image of that takes me back, not only because they were senselessly harming one another, but also because seemingly everyone on either side of the street and in the surrounding cars didn’t seem to give a flip or take notice.

Maybe the reason I can rationalize a purpose for MMA is that to me, an MMA “fight” isn’t a fight. Rather, it’s a well-thought out, well-prepared for battle much in the same way two men strategize during a game of chess and execute moves made to attack and defend. Rather than move pieces about a board, however, MMA “players” look to exploit physical weaknesses or vulnerabilities in an opponent. They’re seeking to use their own strengths to exploit the other’s weaknesses. Not everyone who views MMA from the outside recognizes this, and I guess honestly, I wouldn’t expect them to. Violence is violence after all, whether the two participants are willfully engaging or not. Ultimately, there’s too much violence that exists already without men and women willingly engaging in it. Would the world be a better place without UFC pay-per-views beaming into homes around the world every month? Yeah, most definitely. Still, are these “battles” all that much different from the battles that take place in corporate America every day, where CEOs aim to permanently injure or maim competitors? Is it any worse than the political battles that occur every hour in Washington and play out on news TV 24/7 in which drastically divergent sides purposefully seek to discredit and damage one another in ways that are often dishonest and illegal? At least the participants in an MMA fight know they’re engaging in competition where each knows what is allowable and what is not. Everyone knows the risks up front. Everyone knows what’s expected and what’s not. Further, I’d argue that the kind of mutual respect that takes place inside an eight-side square after a MMA fight, especially following the battle, occurs in few other venues with as much genuine sincerity and purpose.  

I know this much about my fascination with MMA: At least in part, it’s directly tied to a lifelong appreciation/respect/admiration/etc. for the “warrior” mentality, particularly the samurai culture and lifestyle. I respect beyond all description anyone who is capable of making discipline not just part of his life but the reason he lives his life. So many people, including myself, waver day after day, often just to suit needs presently at hand with little to no thought. So many people push supposedly rigid ideal and morals aside without hesitation if it means propelling them even one step further. So many people walk around an obstacle in front of them instead of climb it. So many people settle for less when more is possible because it might require even a little extra effort. So many people refuse to sacrifice even the slightest because settling for mediocrity is far easier than working a little harder to obtain greatness. I admire anyone who possesses the discipline to push their boundaries and venture into the unknown. To seek what they’re truly capable of.

Are there knuckleheads who merely want to “rip somebody’s head off”? Hell yeah. But you can find “that guy” in any environment, and often you don’t have to look too hard to find him. Few environments, however, provide you the capacity to both mentally and physically tap yourself dry—to really challenge yourself to not only meet fear in the eye but kick it the hell out of the way and stomp all over it as you keep walking to the unknown in the way MMA does. I admire the hell out of that.

That’s how I see MMA. I wish there was an easy way to explain all that when my wife or anyone else when they ask, “Why do you watch that stuff?” 

The odd power of song lyrics

These are two of my favorite passages from songs. They were written years apart by different men, most likely under far different circumstances. And like many lyrics from good songwriters (and these two are among the best in my opinion), their original intent was probably much different from what I later interpreted them to mean. Still, these lyrics always seem to travel fairly closely together when I think of one or the other. Perhaps it's because I'm seeking some sort of contradiction or counterbalance to how I'm feeling one way or another within a particular moment. In some weird way, these lyrics give me that: balance. 


Look me in the eye,
Then, tell me that I'm satisfied
Was you satisfied?


- Paul Westerberg "Unsatisfied" 


I've got reservations
about so many things
but not about you.


- Jeff Tweedy "Reservations" 

Quotes

"The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is gratitude." -- Friedrich Nietzsche

"The thing I hate the most about advertising is that it attracts all the bright, creative and ambitious young people, leaving us mainly with the slow and self-obsessed to become our artists. Modern art is a disaster area. Never in the field of human history has so much been used by so many to say so little." – Banksy

I ran across these two quotes recently, and they have my head spinning in numerous ways. What's particularly interesting to me are the reactions that those who I shared Banksy's quote with had. Most of these individuals  mentioned money in one way or another, which I more or less expected. What I didn't expect was how divergent their money-specific reactions would be. On one hand, there were those who felt it makes sense that the young flock to advertising because there is no money to be had by creating art in the traditional manner. On the other hand were those who agree with Banky's summation but feel a strong urge to somehow make the two words meet--to somehow stay true to their art while coming to grips with having to "sell out."

I believe his viewpoint is flawed, or at the least, narrow-minded in its execution. I mean this in the sense that if you choose to have a family, for example, as countless artists do, you're choosing to give up certain benefits, namely the freedom of living a single life that's mostly independent of others. In other words, you have no direct, physical responsibility for the well-being of others. Precisely, children. You're free to pursue your art with far less conflict. If you do have children but manage to remain true to your art and all that entails, most likely you're living the proverbial "struggling artist" lifestyle (as most artists never achieve great wealth or fame), which means so are your children. It most likely also means you're consumed with your art to the point it takes precedence above everything else, translating to you're probably not a terribly good father or mother. At the least, you're probably not terribly attentive to the needs of your children, if you're even aware of their needs at all. That's probably too harsh and sweeping, but I think it's accurate to a great extent.

At any rate, sometimes, the desire to succeed has nothing to do with wanting to achieve financial wealth or fame or distinction. Instead, it has everything to do with contributing to the happiness of those you've purposely or purposelessness chosen to bring into your life and this world.

In the end, I think Nietzsche's summation that the essence of beautiful art is gratitude holds more truth for me. What Banksy find beautiful, I may not, and conversely. For me, an artists economic status has nothing to do with whether I find his art instinctively beautiful. I don't believe that because an artist participates in advertising he's necessarily bright, creative, or ambitious. I see this firsthand. I also don't believe the slow and self-obsessed are all who remains. I see this firsthand, as well. I do completely agree that today, so much is being used to say so little. I know this firsthand.

7 + 7 = Decay

One year,

12 months,

365 days.

And for what?

More monotony scarred on tedious faces?

More appreciation feigned?

More deformed instructions unjustified?

More guidance unexecuted from potential gone gray?

More ground lost?

More space divided?

More intentions led astray?

365 days squandered.

12 months pilfered.

One more year drained.

BAF 

Vogue

Passing waiting-room minutes

in the pages of Vogue,

I invest myself elsewhere,

waking in NYC,

owning Paris,

tainting London,

breaking souls in Rome--

anywhere escaped of Nebraska soil.

I’m stepping out,

smelling fine,

entirely dashing,

completely sublime.

I’m a poet haunted,

painter revered,

actor possessed,

songwriter gone gold.

I’m self-made,

self-aware,

self-contained,

self-assure.  

My model accessory,

she's so skinny good,

fit to be tanned,

a sophisticated drunk,

a bedroom treasure.

My cigarettes burn sweet.

My liquor fuels favors.

My cocaine lights fires.

Another daybreak ignored.

My apartment bears witness,

pitches no black,

divulges no cracks,  

entices the elite.

Only the elite.

Only the elite.

Only the elite.

Only in the pages of Vogue.

BAF

Geeks Are People, Too

I’ve worked in technology for close to 15 years, writing about seemingly every aspect of it--from hardware to software to data centers to virtualization to quad-cores to VoIP to fiber optics to backhauls to overclocking to ink toner to USB 3.0 to DNS to malware to vaporware to partitions to defrags. I watched the Internet boom and then bust. I tested the first consumer digital cameras. I've held all iPod iterations in my hands. I’ve seen Bill Gates speak numerous times. I’ve spoken with inventors, developers, designers, visionaries, pioneers, trailblazers, thieves, pirates, innovators, explorers, and masterminds. I’ve watched my kids become part of a world I never imagined possible in my own youth. But by far the best aspect of working in technology all these years is the utter and endless appreciation, respect, and admiration I’ve grown to hold for “geeks.” Geek was a dirty word when I was walking the playground. It was a sign of weakness. It tainted you. It was a scar you couldn’t hide. Once you were labeled, it was your cross to bear through graduation. Turns out the morons, the weaklings, the scorned were the non-geeks, the ones without vision, without foresight, without a sense of bigger possibilities. I wasn't smart enough to be a geek. I’m smart enough to call many my friends now, however. I love their passion. I love their enthusiasm. I love their work ethic. I love their determination to break down walls. Wish I was half the geek. 

Problem vs. Inconvenience

I think I'm pretty good about realizing when a problem is really a problem and when it should probably just be recast as an "inconvenience." Take, for example, the water pipe situated between my home's upstairs and the recently renovated downstairs that days ago cracked and proceeded to spew what I'm guessing was dozens of gallons of water before being noticed. Naturally, a steady stream of water dripping down basement walls, as well as an obvious pool of water collecting above the ceiling, was a cause for concern. Some people on the scene cried. I chose not to. More interesting was that I really wasn't all that upset and what had transpired. And for several days, I was more bothered about why I wasn't all that bothered about the wreckage. Sure, all the hours I had spent the prior few weeks ripping up carpet, dry walling holes, and painting walls seemed a bit pointless facing what was a sagging ceiling and carpet so saturated we'd ultimately be able to pull gallon after gallon out of it. Still, we were talking about drywall and carpet--not the two most terribly important materials in the world. And we were talking about a basement that realistically amounts to nothing more but extra space in which we can come to be entertained, educated, enlightened, or amused--not a mandatory living area where we sleep, eat, and escape. This wasn't an entire home being pummeled or swept away by a tsunami or earthquake. There was nothing of great value lost. No one was injured. Hell, barely anyone outside those living in the house even knew or cared. Why would they? What really was there to be mad about? Lost time and money? Maybe? But neither are worth my tears or anger in this case. I think the older I become, the more I realize there's always a choice as to who or what we hand over our anger and disappointment. I'm learning that there is almost always at least a minute or two to contemplate truly what has taken place and then pass an accurate judgment concerning its severity. At the least, it feels a hell of lot better feeling unlucky than feeling bitter. 

Swoon, midnight moon.

I’ll follow you home tonight.  

I’ll praise your height,

your light,

your might,

your insistence to attack the night,

to decimate pretensions,

decipher suggestions,

ease tensions threatening demise.

Swoon, midnight moon.

I’ll be your baby alright. 

BAF

The End Sum

My kids say crap all the time that embarrasses me, that makes me wonder, "how in dark hell did that notion ever enter his/her skull?" In the same light, they do crap all the time that makes me bow my head and want to pretend I don't know them; that's makes me want to walk ever so briskly, yet inconspicuously, in the opposite direction before anyone can make the connection that we're somehow linked together. That said, those feelings are temporary, in the sense that they have their own brains working feverishly inside their noggins', and it's not my responsibility to tinker and toy with them. It's my responsibility to teach them how to use them, teach them how to put them into gear and come to their on conclusions. I'm not afraid of mistakes, and they shouldn't be either. I'd rather them take a wrong step, say the wrong thing, and open the wrong door than blindly sit back and never see the damn scenery in the first place. They ruffle feathers, including my own, but they participate. They engage. Most importantly, they think. So what if what their thinking doesn't jibe with what my mind conjures up and centers on? What I believe we have in common is an ability to form opinions and stand by them. So, yes, they do and say crap constantly that I'd just as soon pretend I'd never witnessed, but that's the beauty. They force me to pay attention. They force me to respond. They force me to react, to remain diligent in my own truth. I love them for that and for being individuals, as embarrassing as their words and actions can be. I'm sure they feel the same about mine. 

On Running In March Snow

This misplaced March snow

smells of high school afternoons

begrudgingly spent running

to the railroad tracks and back,

through flaking walls plastered wet,

deep into maddening madness—

a sentence declared by a track coach gone bored,

perpetually unimaginative,

hopelessly uninformed.

Taunting March snow

reeks of steps stomped angrily

with fellow suckers for pain,

long distance colleagues for miles,

brothers in running shoes

sucking air wicked,

churning consistent complaints,

dripping noses red.

Another hour spent sideways

glamorizing girls never dated,

prophesizing jobs never possible,

visiting streets never walked,

spending money never possessed,

battling reality’s demands

to accept snow-burned cheeks,

sweatshirts soaked fat,

shoes squishing surrender,

socks sagging dead,

spirits breaking cold.

Why couldn't I be a sprinter?

Why couldn't I jump higher?

Why couldn't I put a shot?

Why couldn't I vault a pole?

Why was I always escaping snow?

BAF

Lion Guardians

Ran across the Lion Guardians effort from the Defenders of Wildlife this morning. It's extremely sad and disturbing to contemplate my daughter's children will most likely grow up in a world in which many of the grandest animals ever to walk the planet will no longer be walking it, including lions. I'm not certain of what indirect role I've played in their demise, but I'm sure I have, and it saddens me. What saddens (and infuriates) me more is those who would hunt something so magnificent merely to add a stuff carcass to a trophy case. Moronic. But I think that adjective sums up human beings more often than not. I've been thinking a lot lately about what kind of a world my grandchildren (if indeed I have any) will live in, and I'm not thrilled with the prospects. I believe I'm living in a great transitional period (although all time is transitional, I suppose) in which we're moving to an existence that will rely on technology for most things, leaving behind that which can't tie into the grid. I'm thankful for having lived during this transition and experiencing what's possible, but I can't say I'll be sorry to be gone before that final transformation comes. I believe it's going to be a far less beautiful, joyful, engaging, and accommodating place.

Lion Guardians

Always Be Closing, Loser.

A=always, B=be, C=closing. Always be closing. Always be closing. I'm tired of living and working in this environment. Atmosphere. Surroundings. Influence. It’s omnipresent. I hear and see it all day. I feel it crawling all over me like a skanky dirt bath. I’m starting to worry I’ll never be able to clean it off. What the hell are you closing anyway? Another car sold? Another tube of toothpaste passed on to the white-tooth-wannabe consumer? Another Big Mac stuffed down another kid’s gullet? Another shoe wrapped around a fat foot that won't put it to use anyway? Congrats. Congrats on “closing.” Way to go. Way to hit the mark. Way to make the grade. Way to make that pie graph turn in your favor. You’re a closer. A winner. A success. A leader. A man among men. Your what we should all inspire to. You’re also a loser. You lose because when you were closing, you should have exploring. I say, “always be exploring.” Exploring the current moment, and the one after that, and so on. Exploring your real meaning. Exploring your real purpose. Explore what your gung ho energy could really accomplish. Could really create, construct, and maintain. Always be exploring. Otherwise, all you’re really doing is wasting time. Minutes. Hours. Days. Opportunities. Chances. Emotions. Your life. You’re wasting your life, closer. And unless I’m really wrong about this, you only get one. So going ahead and spend your time schmoozing, lying, manipulating, drifting, combing your pretty hair, shining your shoes, and making the rub. Do you what you must do, and for hell’s sake, always be closing. But know this, you’re a loser, even if you’re too busy closing to realize it.

Going to miss you, ole' girl.

Answers

I'd give about anything some days to never have to answer to another soul again. I don't want to answer to myself. My maker. My end. I don't want supply answers to the man. To the woman. To the superior. To the inferior. I don't want to spend time pondering my answers, devising them, constructing or reconstructing them. I don't want to pick them apart. Defend them. Analyze them. Craft them. Shape them. Search for them. I don't even want to consider the questions I'm seeking answers to. Answers, beat it. Now.

Especially in fading nighttime hours

distance oozes,

seeps sticky thick,

as if never to depart.

I crave it’s death.

BAF

Dark night riding.

Silence abounds.

How did we get here?

How do we leave?

Dark night riding

used to be a better time,

used to be faster.

brighter,

less silent.

BAF

Night Hates Snow

Crashing the snow blower into these white walls of purgatory,

I’m reminded of empty winter nights

you crashed my senses into loneliness unthinkable,

anger unimaginable,

hopelessness unprecedented.

Perhaps it is street lights current bouncing

dull-tinted rays off pure whiteness

that transports my mind to regrettable hours

sat alone at a dining room table otherwise unused,

smoking cheap cigarettes one upon another,

taste going unnoticed,

motion more addictive,

hand to mouth, flick,

hand to mouth, flick—

a necessary distraction to emptiness trapped in walls,

to disturbing stillness of nights

abandoned by all but the discarded.

Or perhaps it is boots crushing snow

that sets into motion your black hair agonizingly seductive,

your walk elegantly evil,

your fingers impossibly agile,

your smile enticing the unknown.

You’re still as dangerous as this snow.  

BAF

My Children Know All That I Am

My children know all that I am.

Car ride.

Roadblock.

Gift giver.

Source of pain.

Sounding board.

Face of rage.

Rock to stand on.

Wave of change.

Bodyguard.

Enemy.

Patron of favors.  

Dream killer.

Mower of lawns.

Scooper of snow.

Maker of meals.

Folder of clothes.

Dog poop eraser.

Shoelace master.

Swing pusher.

Slide catcher.

Alcohol detector.

Shoulder to cry on.

My children know all that I am.   


BAF

My Music

My radio station as provided by Slacker--finely crafted, populated, weeded, watered, and manicured.

Enjoy.

Used To Bes

There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to have a bunch of kids bouncing around a good home filled with good love to share life with. Well, I got my wish, only a funny thing happened along the way: The kids didn't want to share their lives with me. Or at least that's how it has seemed in recent days, weeks, months, etc.

It was bound to happen, and it's not like I'm terribly perplexed by the chain of events. Nonetheless, I'm saddened at how things have transpired, and if I could, I'd change the state of those relationships in a second.

My oldest child will venture out on his own in the coming weeks, and I can't help but feel a sense of fear, excitement, regret, and guilt. So much he doesn't know, and so much I could have taught him. So much I wanted to share, and so much I wasn't able to. So much he needed to hear but didn't want to. So much I needed to say but wasn't prepared to. It's never too late I know, but in a sense, there's little I can do now except hope for the best and put my faith elsewhere that everything will work out for the best.

That leaves three children still in the home. Coincidentally, they're all girls, which leaves me obviously vastly unqualified to come to their aid in many areas. However, being of the opposite sex does qualify me to offer them a bounty of advice they hopefully can use to ward off the knuckleheads sure to come knocking in the foreseeable future. Hell, the knuckleheads are already beating at the door.

Two of my daughters are teen-aged. Admittedly, I'm at a loss to know the right or wrong thing to say in seemingly every situation these days. Stumble, apologize, pick myself up, and proceed to move forward without clue one until the next pitiful encounter occurs. That's my standard MO currently, I'm afraid. I wish I could offer up more, because they deserve it.

Maybe it's the dawning of 2010 that has me lamenting lost time and future moments, but I'm feeling desperately out of sorts where my children are concerned, lately. Desperately unproductive. Desperately lacking wisdom and maybe even motivation to change the situation. Complacency is a formidable foe and it's always been my worst enemy. The fact that I've allowed it to creep into my responsibilities as a father, guider, protector, etc., haunts me. Look, I'm no flake, and I've never shucked my duties to provide for my family in the most strictest definition, but there's no doubt that I haven't fulfilled the expectations that I placed on myself many, many years ago. There's no doubt that the hopes I conjured up years ago concerning the prospect of having children failed to materialize, and much of the blame falls on me.

In the end, I think what I truly wasn't prepared for when I became a father was the changes that would take place not only in my children but in myself. I never counted on becoming more conservative, more guarded, more paranoid, more fearful as I grew older. I never counted on my children constantly moving forward while I stood idle, unsure in which direction I should take my next step, or even why I should bother. I'm no fat cat, but I'm not exactly hungry any longer, either. And as someone who's scrapped for pretty much everything that's come my way, that truly bothers me. I've not only failed my children in many regards, I've failed myself. That's disheartening.

A new year always seems to spark new hope and new possibilities, as it should. Still, hope and possibilities will never morph into anything substantial without actual action. Am I up to the task? Am I even capable of mustering up the fight? Have I accepted my lot and deemed my current plight as good as it's going to get? I honestly don't know. I do know it seems as much. For the sake of my children, and my own, I hope I'm wrong.