Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Monday, June 7, 2010

Aftermath

Soundtrack: All the Pretty Faces by The Killers
It's late. I trained hard. I cannot sleep.

She messaged me earlier. Just thinking about her choked me up. If I stop to think of her....I get choked up. Doesn't matter the time of day or night.

In the quiet of the night, my chest grows heavy and I waiver. I tell myself that I can make it work for her, for us.
My resolve grows weak, infirm. I miss her. I miss her falling asleep before I did. I miss reading while she slept and softly stirred every so often. I miss a great many, quiet, priceless, precious things.

I don't know how everything fell apart. But it did. My flaws as a man chiefly to blame.
I have a wedding to attend soon. She was to be my date. Another wedding we would have attended together.
It's tough enough facing the stark reality of her absence.

I don't know there's anywhere to go from here. I'm left wordless and exhausted by my nature and the broken dreams left in its wake.
There is a place beyond infatuation, beyond lust, beyond love, beyond devotion, beyond everything.....I simply feel inextricably bound to her.
-With Greatest Affection
Woke up. Drove home.

Got some coffee.
Thought about her.
Wedding coming up. Seems fitting for her to be my date...but I don't think it will happen.
Being around her is just too painful. Being around her at a wedding would be far too much.
I know that I have to stay away from her. For her good. I don't want to hurt her again, and I just don't know that I can stop myself from running around on her at some point.

"Can you separate all the darkness from my eyes.....Can you separate me from the sin, is it not too late to try and start again...."
-sometimes it is. sometimes it is too late.

Good thing my fight's coming up. One of the few things that gives me reprieve from myself. The daily exhaustion and focus necessary to get ready. This will be my shortest training camp to date. I don't know how I fucked things up so bad. It's like, fighting is the only thing that lets me go, lets me lose myself. But feeding that impulse, that operating on instinct is part of the problem. That very same drive is what makes it so hard for me to be normal....I miss laying in bed with her head on my chest, reading a book.

I drag myself to my feet. Weary from living the past few days. From operating on impulse. I want peace and quiet. I want reprieve. I know it will be fleeting whenever I find it next. Tonight, after the gym, I'll lay beaten and submitted on the mat...the first of MANY such days in the coming month. The fight is just a reward. I need the gym. It is in my blood, it is part of my fiber now. One in a long line of all or nothing men leased upon the world. Impetuous, straining against convention, too strange to live, yet too rare to die (Thompson).

It's like the crazier I become, the more girls flock to me.
I wish it were different. I wish I were different. Fucking curse.

Friday, June 4, 2010

Nothing to see here: Volume 2

I could tell you about what's happened since she and I broke up but it doesn't matter. I miss her. I did the right thing and as usual, it sucks & it hurts. A bunch of hoez have hollered at me. I've been emotionally distant and vacuous.

I remember ages ago, I drove an ex home b/c she was too drunk to drive. The only girl before my ex that I miss in a similar fashion....a girl whom I regarded as a close/best friend & a lover. At any rate, I drove her home, and she asked me to stay, asked me to sleep with her and hold her.....I walked out, knowing in my brain I was doing the right thing yet feeling like shit. This was only a couple months after I'd met my most recent ex.

This is like that.

Contrary to popular fiction, I sometimes do the right thing. I don't make a habit of it b/c it hurts almost as much as doing the wrong thing for which I seem to have a much higher propensity/inclination.

I'm doing okay compared to times past when she and I were apart. I haven't slid into the day after day bender. I've got a fight booked in a month which is good reason to maintain functional/semi sobriety, yet in the past I didn't even manage that. My first fight, I worked a double and drank the night before. My 2nd fight, I drank the weekend before. Seriously. Perhaps, slowly but surely, I am becoming slightly more mature...that or I'm just getting tired.

I miss her. More than I can even consciously admit. I miss what we shared and the feeling of her body pressed against mine, lying in her bed, running my fingers through her hair. I miss the precious weight of her body on my chest and her natural smell, no perfume, nothing, just the smell of her skin and body.

God, I fucked up. This is one of those that will mar my soul.

So, instead of blogging endlessly about how much I miss her.....there's nothing to see here. I'll post again when I have something else to say/feel/blog about.
-With Greatest Affection

Friday, May 28, 2010

Nothing to see here

Don't know that I'm going to post for a few days. I just don't have the spirit to do it and do it well right now. I don't have much the spirit to even crank out some shitty, pithy length post so I won't waste your time.

Good luck and happy hunting. Hoist the black flag in my name.
-With Greatest Affection

Monday, May 24, 2010

Insomnia(c)

Trained hard.
Hard considering the amt. of booze I drank this weekend. Harder considering how poor my diet and sleep schedule had been as well.

My technique's gotten better b/c I accomplished two things on the mats I had not before. I'll spare you the trivial details.

Made a delicious dinner to treat myself for 1) not drinking and 2) fighting the good fight at the gym. Nights like this give me hope. Hope that I may manage some semblance of normalcy in the coming months.

I know that tomorrow as the sun sets, I will hear the whispers of gibbering id....but for tonight...I feel good enough to not think about that.

Good luck and happy hunting my readers.
-With Greatest Affection

Turmoil

The days grow warmer.

I grow distant.
I disconnect. I feel as though everything I do minus time at the gym sweating and bleeding is just going through the motions. I feel devoid of emotion. I feel like a complete sham of what represents a person. I feel hollow and devoid.

I see the same colossal leviathan waken and rise before me.

It takes every fiber of my being to resist the pull of temptation and not slide into a 2 months maelstrom of drinking.

So, I'm off to the gym for several hours.
I bid thee well faithful readers. Good luck and happy hunting.
-With Greatest Affection

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Gremlin Hunting



Soundtrack: Hazy Shade of Winter by SWR

"The life that was to make his soul would mar his body."
Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray

Strolled into the cool evening air. My head and chest were fighting a battle for control. My head spoke of moving on and my chest strummed fingers upon reflections and longing.

I walked in my Chucks on the cooling pavement whilst feeling the night's languid air...yet somehow the white noise of crackling tension began to announce the night's possibilities.
I posted up with a different crew than usual. Change was necessary. Something else was different: I was not drinking.

A fashion show took place which explained the bevy of girls taller than myself that had gathered at said drinking establishment like some herd of giraffe on migration. An Asian guy chatted me up due to our having mutual friends. He actually used some PUA lingo within the first few sentences. I told myself to be pleasant and sociable but I honestly had to force it. I was discordant. I was sober. I played around the room and ascertained who was with whom and who was more interested of each couple.

He was a cool kid, asked me about jiu-jitsu b/c our mutual friend had told him about my chosen sport. He was gung-ho about opening some pretty birds in the room, but I wasn't out to socialize with the fairer sex. I had simply come out to hang with my buddies and make it a sober night.
I was doing surprisingly well on both accounts.

My mentor arrived and we chatted about the blowout with my girl.
Walked outside and my buddy was chatting up two gremlin-looking coquettes. He introduced me (unnecessarily) and they acted like they were doing me a favor by giving me their names. Stupid college girl(s) inundated with dick offerings by guys in flip-flops, rockin' wayfarers, smelling like deodorant. Give it a couple years ladies.

I controlled my face and hid my disgust so as not to fuck up my buddy's approach.
They walked away after one girl feigned that she didn't want to give my buddy her number.
He was going to be the best looking guy that even looked at them that night. Period.
I complimented one of the models (a ginger) on her walk.
"Did you really just have to bullshit over that gremlin's phone number?" I asked.
"Yeah. It's cool.You gotta' put in work sometimes."
"I guess. Fuck those gremlin hags. They looked like 12 year old boys on Halloween wearing masks they bought from the Halloween store. 'Sides, I'm prettier than those bitches."
Two of the models seated to my left began laughing and joined our conversation. They lightly shit-tested me for my "prettier than those bitches" line but I maintained frame. I wasn't looking and they weren't my type. Running tight game with girls you're not interested in is easy.

Complimented a nubian model on her walk.
Complimented a Latina on her shoes as she sat blithely on a couch killing time.
The coma people were out and about. The clique people were out and about. The out to be seen by others and take pictures for facebook people were out and about.

Good luck and happy hunting my faithful readers. Hoist the black flag.
-With Greatest Affection

Friday, May 21, 2010

The Truth Will Set You Free



Found out I'll be moving in with a buddy in a week.

Some humor for your day, you ask? I've been living with my momz on and off for the past couple years with some temporary respites at various subleased places which functioned more as flophouses than actual places of residence. My mom left the state for awhile and I helped pay part of the mortgage once my 'rents decided to go ahead with the divorce. Then my momz moved back after that fell through and I've been helping her out with bills and such b/c it took awhile to find a job given the current economy.

This blog has come at a steep personal price. It has remained a bastion of truth in my double life. If there was room for the truth in daily life this blog would not exist. This blog is perhaps hyperbole at times, a diary open for the world to see, written anonymously. But then, as always, the mask slips and those not meant to see it have read the words.

Since I got back together with my girl I've actually behaved. Shocking, I know. My past is littered with indiscretions and poorly made choices and mistakes. I was giving it a go. I was spending nights playing on my computer and jerking off. I was behaving. I was being one of those normal people I hear about on television.

--
It's like the woman told me last weekend as I sat with her son.
"Men make mistakes."
She said it not judging, but one who had seen, been privy to, and been let down by men but knew this was just the road men must tow.

Allegedly, there are guys who don't slip. There are guys devoid of vice(s). I guess. At least, that's the image they do a better job than yours truly of maintaining for the world to see. I doubt there's many good looking, intelligent, charismatic, and confident guys that don't slip from time to time. If you find one, let me know.

Let me know how exciting that is.
Women need a good reason to cry. A reason to get worked up, to shout, to scream.....if nothing else, the fact that her man is "too nice" will become the reason for the above. How many times have you heard chicks bemoan the fact that "he's too nice," or "he's nice, but....."??

Last night: I told some blonde girl she had toilet paper on her shoe. Her friend waxed poetic about how nice I was. In the midst of this bullshit 5 minutes, my girl called. I didn't answer b/c I wasn't up for a needlessly drawn out conversation where I had to qualify why I wanted to hang out with my guy friends and that "no" I wasn't picking up chicks. Typically, I only see my friends on the weekends b/c y'know, like, I train to fight and stay in shape and like, I have a job, and my buddies are not in school anymore. At any rate, I inadvertently hit the answer button on my phone at some point, and apparently she overheard my talking to a girl.

Alert the media. Someone call the news station. Breaking news.
Like every night she's out I haven't heard from guys I know who work downtown about guys chatting her and her friends up. Her friends literally go to places they know that have more guys than girls. At any rate.....

What followed were vociferous texts and hurtful things. All over some blonde girl not even my fucking type chatting me up out of politeness b/c I told her she had toilet paper on her shoe.

Chris Rock said it best: Jump to 3:15 for the truth


From Kinowear: "confidence is built on the belief that no matter what happens, they can trust that they’ll handle it and take immediate correct(?) action. "

It is what it is

Doesn't seem to matter if I behave. I'm accused just the same. I can be a housecat for however long, but an unanswered phone call, a night out with my buddies and none of that matters. It still ends in accusation.

The truth shoppe may be shutting down, folks. I'll email my longtime readers if this blog shuts down and I start a new one.


"Every disappointment and mistake, summer's ebbing from a one night heartbreak....."
-She Wants Revenge

Thursday, May 20, 2010

(Un)Tangled Webs We Weave

File under: the ever increasing arms race that is seduction/men & women relationships

For awhile I got bogged down in the whole "who's too cool for whom" tip I was running into while out and about/socializing. Between slagz shit testing over my choice in Argyle/tie/flaking after them giving me their number unprompted......I was going through one of those "negative feedback" phases one gets into, otherwise known as a slump.

Been reading a lot of VK's and the Rookie's blogs as of late.
It's refreshing due to the respective analogies and admittance of failures/obstacles/the unforseen.

Much value can be gleamed from the mis-steps in pursuit of tail as well as a couple perspectives on the same situation/411.

I learned more from my fuck-up a few weeks ago than I did the last few girls that simply affirmed what I know about women/game/pick-up and were beating down my door for the rod.

The curve balls make you re-evaluate. The stumbles make you pay attention to what's going on around you, insteada' walkin' around thinking you're the flyest ***** on earth and untouchable when all that's going on is whorez ar3 throwing themselves at you.
See opportunities, not obstacles. A shit test is just a test...prove you're man enough to handle her ass.

The game evolves. Period. The landscape of desire and pursuit is not static. If it was, guys like us would get bored of it super quick anyhow. Besides, this is part of the process that weeds out the unfit. Selection bias is part of the innate design for the best genes.

If you'd told me, with the right venue selection, making sure there is dichotomy in my appearance (boyish good lucks mixed with tattoos) a few years ago that girls would open me/hit me with 20 questions and beg to make plans, I'd have balked and asked what the fuck you were talking about. If you'd told me cats would begin salting my game with lies, accusation, innuendo b/c their girl hit me up by the bathroom, I'd have laughed and shook my head.
If you'd told me I could swoop the cats with the most social proof effortlessly....well, you get the picture.

These were things I had to observe in the matrix and become aware of on my own. No amount of "telling me" was gonna do it.

I don't run a heavy conversational game. Deep rapport is something I segue into depending on the vibe I get from the girl (Game comes from a core state but must be reactionary-calibrated). Different girls require a different amount of conversation before segueing into rapport...different factors figure in: how attracted she is to you, what she's seen (who've you been talking to, if you are acquaintances with her/her coterie et cetera) and discerning if she's vicariously conversationally cheating on her man b/c he doesn't know how to dance/is out of town...is actually D.T.F. you.

I see 2 basic pick-up models:
1) craft pick-up that nets the most girls possible but does not single out a particular type
OR
2) craft a selective/signature style like VK's mentioned, and use that to filter through girls that won't be much more than an SNL/aren't really what you want anyway.

And much like VK stated...after awhile...just getting a notch becomes a pretty bland experience.
Hell, if you'd told me that a few years ago, I'd have balked. It was something I had to find for myself.

The cold reality: the last 4 girls that have opened me were beating down my door for me to come over and rail 'em but I passed.

Sifting through the dirt for the gems....it takes a lot to make me doubletake these days. A couple weeks ago was the first time in 6 months or so I saw a girl that hit me with the doubletake.

But hey....it's not like I'm a fan of predictability or easy pursuits....if I was I wouldn't be living the sporting life and I wouldn't find peace fighting in front of several hundred people.
Good luck and happy hunting my faithful readers. Hoist the black flag.

-With Greatest Affection

Obligatory Boxing Post: Styles

Soundtrack: Rakim's "Don't sweat the technique" (one of the jams I listen to when I'm warming up along with a healthy dose of B-Boy music).

"A man can be an artist... in anything, food, whatever. It depends on how good he is at it."
-Man on Fire

From a young age, I was enamored with boxing. Seeing guys get in there and move, bounce, flow, precision punching...and ultimately the balls necessary to get in there with another guy and slug it out while thousands watched....I was awestruck. As a small for my age kid growing up on the west coast seeing guys that had that courage and grace and finesse under fire always struck me as amazing. It was a place where a 147 lb man was a terror.

It was a power I desperately wanted. It's a power I've spent nearly 6 years pursuing despite increasing costs/sacrifice necessary.

In no particular order, stylistically, here are some of my favorite boxers:

Emmanuel Augustus:

Pernell Whitaker:

Salvador Sanchez:


Roberto Duran:

Marvin Hagler:

Harry Greb:
Despite having been the ONLY man to beat Gene Tunney, and logging nearly 300 professional bouts, no fight footage of Harry Greb exists.

Carmen Basilio:

And last but not least, the modern day warrior, Arturo Gatti - RIP.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Poser(s)

Woke up. Ate some Cheerios.
The day loomed before me. I called in late to work. Most people do this so they can sleep late or b/c they're hungover.
Not your humble narrator.
I had sparring time booked with 4 guys all heavier than me.
Add that I haven't done any full out sparring since my injury. Over a month of ring rust and timing lost. Fuck it.
Good way to start the day. Hoist the black flag. Bleed now to win later.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Recommended Viewing

Over at PUA Lingo there's an embedded clip that is not about game, but about overhauling your life and the pursuit of "happy" - ness.

In particular, I recommend from 13:30 onwards.


Great viewing. Sit down with a beer and soak it in.

Seriously.

Advanced Basics: Life Edition



Some people assume that I fight and train out of insecurity. What started as the desire to have a better shot at defending myself and those for whom I care has become a life long process of self-improvement. Training is far more humbling. Each day I roll with guys stronger, heavier, better, and more experienced than myself. Most days involved admitting defeat, being bested in the form of a tab/submission. I'll go a week without submitting anyone. Some days, a great day is just surviving and managing to avoid being tapped out.

Try that for your insecurities.
I've learned more about myself in the long years of training and competition than in virtually every other facet/endeavor in my life.

I was rolling at Jiu-Jitsu last night.
I had been worried that I'd have lost a lot of finer points in my absence and to be sure I wound up in some bad positions, nearly tapped out, but overall, the time away did me good in showing how far I've come since my last fight.

My instructor had recently been to a seminar and he was talking about "advanced basics"....nothing super fantastical, nothing over the top balls ridiculously hard. Just refined movements that are based on the fundamental basics of mat work. Things that work regardless of the situation, regardless of the opponent: sound fundamental principles that are based on the universe and physics.

I'm going to talk about a cornerstone of LIFE/Game that is not focused on enough. It's an important one from the first interaction to those of you who operate long term game: Controlling closure/Drawing the line in the sand.

This is a fundamental "line in the sand" that may cost you acquaintances and fair weather friends...and unfortunately even some of those intrinsic to your personal life.....but those who know you will respect you whether or not they stay in your life.

You must be willing to walk away from people, situations, & offers that are not on your terms.

Delineating what is in your best interest in an entirely different subject I will not broach at this time. This isn't a self-help/advice website/forum.

I'm talking about a friend who wants you to co-sign on a student loan for a chick he's been dating 6 months.

A boss that treats you like shit and degrades you.

A Co-worker that steals your work.

A friend who turns their back on you for personal decisions you've made.

A relative that wrongs you/stabs you in the back.

A snake in the grass that pretends to be a friend all the while scheming on a girl you're dating....

When dating....drawing the line in the sand regarding expectations, labels, seeing others, dancing with others...blah blah. This isn't about fairness. If everyone was the same, consistency in its purest form would be possible. It's not. Men and women are not the same. What's good for the goose is good for the gander is the stupidest phrase in history. If that phrase was true American women would be happy? Who was the last HAPPY WOMAN you met? Name one. Seriously. I want you to think of the last HAPPY woman you met? Not pleasant. Not Smiling. I'm talking Fucking Happy. With a thirst for life, for experience, for fun...who genuinely was happy with herself and her life?

Seriously. Can you name one?

I have digressed.....The key is that you must be willing to draw that line in the sand and ACTUALLY walk away when your bluff is called. A lot of times the bluff won't even be called....but when it is, pack your shit and hit the trail, movin' on down the line.

"It's my way or the highway."

You may not be right. You may be utterly wrong. No one ever said you had to be right/correct to draw a line in the sand. That does not matter.
It's Alamo time, bitches.
Draw the line in the sand and walk away if need be.

This has cost me friends, acquaintances, jobs, girlfriends, and several family members.
-
Welcome to the Alamo called "Life".

-With Greatest Affection

Monday, May 17, 2010

Insight

I strolled up the pavement past several nice cars. I walked in and saw my buddies. I lithely strolled by an ex-girlfriend of mine and sat down by the pool. Small fuckin' world. I don't get to see my buddy often due to an ongoing separation/divorce/custody battle. Good intentions line the path to hell. I should have been elsewhere. I should have been with my girl. I inherited something from my stepfather....I try to do to much. I try to please too many people. I balance too many things on my lap.

It is a small world. The ex glanced my way as I spoke with my other friends in attendance.

I cracked open a beer. The ex decided to leave though we ended on semi-pleasant terms years ago, but then she's ******, so they takes that kinda shit personal I 'spose. Her mother and brother were there, but the boy was too young to remember me. The mother I could tell did recall my visage (she used to lightly flirt with me and compliment me) but said nothing. I opted not to have the backstory known to those in attendance.

A **** girl with fake tits that were the first pair I've ever seen that weren't nauseating was encouraging everyone to have shots. It was some strange Columbian booze. Probably the equivalent of Aristocrat based on the taste. Patron followed. The girl with the fake tits looks remarkable considering the number of kids she's had and her age. There are American chicks 18 years old that look worse than her. A lot of them.
I'd met her through the ex @ the party, and through the ***** girl from last summer that longtime readers may recall. The one that got me booted by the gay roommates.

Another ***** girl flirted with my buddies. A **** girl was wrapped up with my other friend. I chatted with a ***** man and his Columbian friend. They spoke of **** and other places they'd been in South America. I had somewhere to be. I was waiting on the guys to pack up and drive as I wasn't in shape to do so. I waited.

Another shot. Another beer. BBQ. Another shot.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I played with one of the kids. He told me about school and a girl in his class. He asked me about my tattoos then about fighting. He said I seemed sad. He asked if I could come to his class and meet his friends. I wondered if/when I'll be able to settle into a life such as this: house, pool, dog, kid(s), wife......there are quiet moments of peace, however fleeting, that calm my restless spirit with a look, a touch, a scent, a flicker of time.....

His mom said I was good with kids, asked if I had any of my own.
"No. I don't."
"You will. In time."
"I don't know if that's the case."
"You'll calm down with time. You are still young, yet. You have a thoughtful face. How old are you?"
"27."
"Yes. You can feel it already. I can see it in your face. The same things are not the same things to you they were once."
"Yeah."
"You are young. You are a man. Men make mistakes."

Fade to black.

I woke up in my car. I drove home. I tried to sleep. My phone was busted.
I literally climbed up the side of the building with relative ease and rapped on my girl's window b/c my phone was busted and I didn't want to wake her roommates. I came inside and we slept then enjoyed a wonderful rest of the weekend.
It's life: bumps, bruises, smiles, tears, and all.

-With Greatest Affection

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Shots to the Face

Had some shots with one of my best friends.....woke up in my car.

Which means....I missed hanging out with my girlfriend after her *****.

Friday, May 14, 2010

A Whisper in a Room Full of Shouts



From the Files of "to be posted later".....

"To me, Beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances." -Henry Wotton, The Picture of Dorian Gray

A sign to one is not the same sign to another. Crossing paths in the most unpredictable of times is just that....a sign...if you're a chick. If it happens twice in a week's time...well then, it's meant to be.....if you're a chick.

"It's meant to be," a quintessential passive/aggressive girl rationalization tool for liking a guy.

Nicaragua. Brazil. Venezuela. Mexico. India. Czech Republic. Cougarland.

A lot of girls. Blase. They all ask the same questions. Virtually all of them respond to the same routines/basic principles. Going out with ZERO intention of gaming and simply interacting changes the whole paradigm. When you're not vested in the interaction, simply curious to see the "action/reaction" ping pong of social situations.....consistencies emerge.

A couple guys who've seen you work this same room come by and irritatingly fist bump/ask you 20 questions like they're some chick trying to suck your cock.

20 questions repeated ad nauseum. Chicks and dudes playing the same part on your stage.

My phone lit up.
"Do you want to come over for dinner and drinks?"
The 2nd time in as many days that an offer of this nature had come down the digital pipe.
Blase.

My phone lit up....I was busy playing Battlefield Bad Company 2 (Awesome game) and actually doing the "quiet night at home" thing which has proven so elusive in my past. My eyes grew tired from training and knifing motherfuckers in the face on the virtual battlefield.

She always worries when she needs not. When she's not worried, she should be.
Ah, the irritating predictability/paradox of life.
Things reach a point....when you try to behave. You do everything you're supposed to do...but it's not enough. It never will be. The trust is gone. There is no rewind. No number of compliments, hugs, mornings woken up next to can restore that previous state.
The weight of transgressions/mistakes becomes a yoke to bear....you who carry few such burdens.

The mask slips. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
Expectations. You abhor them. They make a drab and dreary affair of life. This is part of what chick magazines and therapists tell women is a "fear of commitment".
It's a fear of boredom put more aptly. Life is short. There are no rewinds, no redo's. There is only the non-existence that follows that last breath/gasp.
When I'm 80....assuming I live that long (quite the assumption, I know), I won't lie in bed and think, "y'know, I should have spent more nights at home playing video games".....
--

She came my way. She stood next to me at the bar. Her arm semi-subtly touched mine. She hoped/expected me to open. I did with some bullshit situational opener like I always do. It's not really what you say....just the guy saying it that matters. If you build it they will come.
You informed her the next ***** dance was hers.
She smiled and said she looked forward to it.
As is virtually always the case, you were a better dancer than her despite her heritage.
Insecurity does not compliment girls well.

A long ago dance partner roved her eyes over you. As you parted with the Nicaraguan, you held out your hand and the two of you moved in time. You saw an ex from ages ago, a Cartel member's girlfriend who partied you under the table (the only girl to ever do so). You had heard she returned home to the motherland. As with most things people say, creative liberties had been taken. She still looked good. She still looked like some drug lord's mistress. You were busy dancing with a dark-haired girl.

Ships passing in the night and all that shit.

There was no flicker. The candle kept burning at both ends. Wax dripping on fingers deigning to capture the flame then shocked that the flame singed their skin when they came too close to it. To hold the flame would extinguish it....a sad truth they know in their heart of hearts yet hope against hope is not the case. You're not a house cat. You never have been. You do a good impression of one, and it soothes your restless soul much of the time...but the call of the wild roars to a deafening decibel and you have to kill a bird to leave on the doorstep. You're not sure why, you've tried repressing it. You've tried being a good little boy reading and watching bad network television.
As it is, you awoke, sipped coffee you didn't need and drove to work in the cool morning air, irritated and nonplussed by a needless conversation forthcoming.


"First one gives off his best picture, the bright and finished product mended with bluff and falsehood and humor. Then more details are required and one paints a second portrait, and third---before long the best lines cancel out---and the secret is exposed at last; the planes of the picture have intermingled and given us away, and though we paint and paint we can no longer sell a picture. We must be satisfied with hoping such fatuous accounts of ourselves as we make to our wives and children and business associates are accepted as true."
Fitzgerald's The Beautiful and Damned

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Life Lessons

Finished my boxing workout. A guy that's pretty cool who trains there was struggling with some work on the mat. Specifically, he couldn't escape this position...so he got caught in an armbar ala this gif.

he's a nice guy. Not overbearing. doesn't walk around all hard since he's been training for a few months like some clowns do...it's not his fault the guy running the "mma" sucks and isn't qualified to teach someone how to hold a fuckin' jump rope. He's not fortunate like me as I train with the best jiu-jitsu team in the state. I do my boxing with boxers. I do my jiu-jitsu with jiu-jitsu guys.....I don't go to a boxing gym to learn "mma" b/c I watched The Ultimate Fighter on SpikeTV.
Alas, I have digressed.
I stepped in and methodically showed him the mount escape, explained the frame and specifics about drilling escapes from bad positions religiously...b/c as I found out in various parking deck/parking lot fights....bad positions come out of nowhere esp. in street fights.

You miss an armbar, damn.
You miss a mount escape...teeth are missing as well. Hell, even if you hit it, likely, you'll get punched in the process.

These are lessons learned the way most effective: the hard way....the eye swollen shut, ribs broken, concussion style lessons that leave scars and lapses in memory.

Roll the dice.

As a kid, I wish my dad had said something like, "Son, one day you might turn to say something to your friend and a large man will strike you at the base of the skull. The next thing you know he's pounding your head in on concrete...what do you do? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU DO?"

It's a question you can really only answer when it happens.

And you'll probably be drunk as fuck when it happens too.
Heads up.

Good luck and happy hunting, kids.
-With Greatest Affection

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Hilarious Post over at Insurgency, Inc.

Hipsters...and their inability to just f'ing admit they are.
---

The Jungle: Modernity Edition

Soundtrack: Guerilla Radio

Competition for low paying jobs?
Housing market a swindle?
Credit crunch/predatory lending?
Higher education virtually unattainable (unless you take out massive loans-see above)?
Massive corruption/graft occurring between politics, private interests and the government?
Court/Legal system about who has deeper pockets?
Corporations making the regulations that oversee them/flaunting them regardless?

Each year.....I'm more and more amazed at the parallels between Upton Sinclair's seminal work, The Jungle, and our modern time(s).

Though, semi-Victorian in nature due to glorification of the protagonist(s), and purporting a cure-all (in the form of Socialism).......

Much like its predecessors in the vein of Dickens and other socially aware authors that pulled on the heart strings of the reading public; Sinclair took a political slant and sought to create sympathy for the plight of the impoverished.

But as we look at the news, as we look at the economy....as we look at spiraling national debt then have the bank and the student loan companies harp on us as though individual citizens should not have any accrued debt....wait, no that's not right, you have to have a certain amount of extended credit to even have a decent credit score.....hmmm. Imagine that.

Some of us had a "Rage Against the Machine" phase early in our rebellious youth. We saw conspiracies and harped on the government's largely felonious practices in various parts of the world.....then you set childish things aside.

Are you not a bum? Are you motivated? Are you ambitious? Are you intelligent/creative/driven?

You go to college.
You take out a loan.
You get a credit card.
You graduate having negative net worth.
You are saddled with debt for an education worth less than at any point in history yet 100's of times more expensive....so your eyes eventually fall upon those "childish" things......and you grab your teddy bear, you grab your big wheel, Gameboy in hand, and you open your eyes to see the system of debt.

It is a system DESIGNED to keep you paying back money you can Virtually never fully pay back. If everyone, or even the majority of people zero balanced their credit each month, many credit lenders would fold overnight. They would close up shop b/c there would be no money in it.

I have banked with the same bank for 3 1/2 years. I need a loan to make it to payday. I'm talkin' like $100. I had a check clear unexpectedly that I wrote over a month ago. The bank said "no, [they] cannot in good faith extend me a loan."
This is the same institution that has been loaning out my money to others on interest for 3 and a half years.
I don't need them. They need me. Worker beers can leave the hive. The Queen is the slave, not the other way around.

Wrap your brain around that. I cannot obtain a loan for $100 b/c I'm behind on my student loan payment(s).

These are two totally unconnected debts, held by two completely different hands....but you see, they talk to one another. They "flag" you....so though, like in Rounders with Matt Damon:
"All the luck inthe world isn't gonna change things for these guys. They're simply overmatched. We're not playing together, but we're not playing against each other, either. It's like the Nature Channel. You do'nt see piranhas eating each other, do you? "


Do not participate in a corrupt system in which you are designed to lose.
I'm not advocating you go Jack Duane in The Jungle and grift/become a professional thief, b/c unless you have money, the legal system exists to get those that go outside the confines of the debt system.

How much money does the federal government have?
NOT ONE FUCKING RED CENT. They do not own the lint in my fucking pocket nor the ink on my goddamn check.

Don't forget that.
The government is answerable to its people, not the other fucking way around.
Somewhere along the line "public" servants forgot that.
We are not indebted to them. They are indebted to us.

Equal Protection Under the Law....another fallacy

True story. Truth is stranger and more terrifying than fiction.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Serenity(?)



She stood on her tip toes in the doorway. I held her face in my hands and missed her already. I pulled her to me and felt her body close to mine. I ran my fingers through her hair and could barely speak. Words could not articulate the depth of feeling I possess for her. I had stayed in bed next to her as long as possible. I was already late for work. I had much to do but none of that mattered.
Peace is not a feeling that I experience with much regularity. Normalcy is not a state to which I am accustomed despite my best efforts to make it commonplace. I'd emerged from the weekend melange equal parts hollow and.......something I could not articulate.

I walked into the cool morning air, late for work but unfazed. Life is a series of moments which phase from one to the next....but a precious few reverberate then emblazon themselves onto the core of our being.
Tonight I'm going to train hard enough that I can resist the call of the wild. One of you will have to hoist the black flag in my stead. Good luck and happy hunting.
I bid thee well.

-With Greatest Affection

Monday, May 10, 2010

Weekend Wrap-Up: Prizefighter Edition

Above.....legendary Harry Greb. Fought nearly 300 pro bouts despite being dead by the age of 32...fight for years whilst blind in one eye. Straight up. They don't make a lot of men like that anymore.

Soundtrack: I Get Even by Mickey Avalon

Busy weekend.

Got back on the mats for the first time in a month. Within a few weeks I hope to be back full steam at the gym, possibly fighting in July, but more than likely August. Oddly enough trained with a guy I almost fought recently. His skillset was, shall we say, unimpressive. He left the gym knowing he narrowly avoided a serious fucking ass whipping in front of about 700 people.

Saturday, watched my white whale (whose coaches turned down a fight with me) fight another guy in a back and forth affair that was likely fight of the night.

Keep winnin' those fights champ. I'll be waiting.

Celebrated my buddy's birthday.

Hadn't planned on going in the first place, but got into the opening night of a brand new club/lounge where I may be working part-time in short order. I'll be making money hand over f'ing fist if I get hired.
I rolled up past the 50-60 people in line rockin' my white v-neck t-shirt, jeans, and Chuck Taylors while broads wearing super expensive dresses, hair styled just for the night, and needlessly fake tanned legs stood outside shivering in the aberrant cold night air.

In other humor, some chick grabbed my ass. A girl in a red dress saddled up next to your humble narrator and made small talk. I excused myself and discussed life and such with my mentor before another girl in a tank top and designer jeans asked me to dance. Dancing wasn't on my list of things to do as I was tired from a long day of training, watching the fights, and revelry.

.....in other news, at said bar's gala opening, I saw two mortal enemies from my past.
--About 2 years ago perhaps, I saw these two clowns both at the same bar on the same night. I rolled up on both of them and called them both out on it in front of like 20 of their friends. Because they're both cunts, they rallied their troupes, but my 3 buddies and I were literally going to hand them all their asses...so the pansies got the bouncers to take us out. Pitiful, really.

Anyhow, I was posted up at the bar when I saw the first guy. He immediately averted his eyes and disappeared into the crowd. Rollin' out hand in hand with them was the cousin of another ex of mine.
I saw the second guy and he looked away. I guess 20 min's later or so he felt the need to not feel like a gutless simp of a man and magically appeared next to me at the bar. I looked over at him and smiled.....but he never looked up from his beer. He was probably having someone somewhere snap a picture to prove had something that resembles balls. I guess in his mind standing next to someone he fears even when backed up by 20 guys is a moral victory.
Hope he slept well on that.
The girl in the red dress re-appeared by my side but I just slammed down my Corona and flitted into the night with a tragic smile on my face.
I went home with my absurdly smart and gorgeous girlfriend.
One or both of those clowns were probably jackin' off with their tears as lubricant and wishing they could at least feel a little bit more like a man.

Put your dick in the fire. Get beat up. Roll the dice. You can go on youtube and watch me fight motherfucker. You gotta' pay cold, hard cash to see me put the hands, knees, and feet on folks these days. I am a prizefighter...part of a long tradition comprised of the all or nothing men walking around, living the sporting life.

Oh yeah. And I got another tattoo.

Monday morning came quickly....I slept fitfully and deep. She was by my side. I ran my fingers through her hair as she lay with her head on my chest. Leaving her for work and the drive in my metal coffin proved difficult as it does on these peacefully quiet mornings next to her. There was no hangover, no need for coffee or rushed exit. Her beautiful face and long, dark hair....soft and warm...hushed toned tales of intimacy and longing coursing between my fingertips and her skin. I could have hugged her and crushed her in my arms, unable to articulate her importance to me and the depth of my feeling(s) for her. I've spent much of my days self-reliant, hesitant to actually rely on another, at least in self-admittance. I sat with my mother yesterday...and it occurred to me, that the person I trust most other than her is my girl.

-With Greatest Affection

Friday, May 7, 2010

Concise response to Com. Central's Censorship....

"The failure to stand up for free expression emboldens those who would attack and undermine it.”

Busy Weekend & Man the F*** Up

The manosphere will shriek this weekend about mother's day, and granted, I think that Olympics commercial saying only "thanks mom" was slanted/myopic.

The cold reality? Women have long born the brunt of childbearing and rearing.

Yes, a peaceful society in which to raise a child is only possibly with men willing to kill and die for defending the borders/ideology et cetera. I'm not going to beat this horse to death.....but if more men did their fucking part to raise their fucking kid the government wouldn't be stepping in to replace fathers in part/whole. There also used to be recourse for women who gave it up and the guy didn't marry them as promised (see the Victorian period, the term "Shotgun" wedding, et cetera).

My dad walked out. I don't even know what he looks like. My mom didn't. She raised me.

Some faggots/woman hating betas out there in the manosphere can cry "whiteknight" 'til they're blue in the face.
Welcome to being a fucking man.
Work hard. Die early. Take risks. Die early. Get no thanks. Die early.
It's called being a fucking man for a reason, nancyboys. Go cry into your pillows and shake your fists elsewhere.
It's also secretly part of what makes being a fucking man awesome.
It's a struggle. It's a struggle that transforms you into all that you can be and more if you can handle the obstacles.

It's called life motherfuckers. Get over it. Man the fuck up.
--

Live fights this weekend in my city, UFC on pay-per-view, my buddy's birthday....going to watch a guy that ducked me fight someone else. His coaches know I'd take his arm home with me inside of one round so they turned down a fight with me. It's okay. Let him win a few more fights and build his name up. He won't be able to duck me forever as we fight out of the same city and we're both entertaining as fuck underneath the bright, hot lights. I'm still going to beat the brakes off him then tap him out.

Spent a night out with her last night.
She has this look in her eyes that can melt steel. She has this look that makes me crumble.
She has this look that echoes and reverberates to the core of my being and rends my will to pieces.

I slept deep, restful, peaceful, catatonic sleep with her by my side. It was hard to leave for work, her standing at the door in her t-shirt and underwear, leaning up to kiss me.

Some things in life are truly priceless.
-With Greatest Affection

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Pretty Fallacies




Soundtrack: NIN's The Day the World Went Away

You head into the brink. You have plans for a several bar jaunt with your coterie of rogues. The night has all the telltale signs of predictability. You've picked up various numbers as of late. You have been nonplussed.

You spy with your little eye a girl you intended to approach weeks, or months ago (who knows such things....all the nights turn into one melange, after all). You will not be denied this time.

If there is one thing about you that is beyond doubt it is that when you see what you want...however rare that is....you are a deal closer. There is no plan B. There is only success.

Your buddy opens the group she's with lithely with a cigarette opener. You don't even inject yourself into the conversation. You think you know how you will play this. You have been drinking but you are in the perfect state. You are not sloppy by any means. You have already opened a number of sets and been mixing up the conversation muscles for a couple hours. You can apply what you have learned over YEARS of going out and socializing and conquests. There is no "if" only "when".

Your buddy opens the group then ejects momentarily with a takeaway move. You wantonly open her based on her country of origin (your favorite). But the logistics are fucked up. The french chick in the group places herself next to you. You consider the prospects but know that there has been miscommunication. Your 3rd friend placates the Latina in the group. As the **** motions for you to talk to her, a slag you met the night before does an arm pull and takes you inside.

The new variable in the equation buys you a shot. The IOI's are off the fucking charts. Each and every indicator is present. Were you not keeping your eyes on the prize, this guaranteed bang would be a slam dunk. She keeps touching her hair. She hooks her arm in yours. She looks up into your face like a child on Christmas. She is all smiles and sing song voice tone. She cannot keep her hands off of you. She is sweating you like no other.
She waves her friends home. She tries a time constraint move by saying she's only staying for 10 more minutes. You wanly dismiss this. Game recognizes game.

You are staring into the goddamn fucking matrix. The binary code flashes and flies by at the speed of sound.

You are maintaining the original pursuit. You will not be denied a second time. You must deter this variable/woman. You have to ditch her and get back to the prize.
You try everything to deter her.
The ****** looks back and motions to her friends as you down your shot. At the end of the day, however, you know that the ***** is getting wet over this inadvertent takeaway by this other girl.

"Where do you live?" she asks.
"I live with my mom."
"That's awesome."
Are you fucking serious? Homegirl is determined.
"What do you do? Don't you have work tomorrow?"
"I review porn for a website. Part-time."
"That's interesting. Do you jerk off a lot?"
"I did twice before I came here. Get it? Came here?"
Fuck. I am losing steam to blow her off. She has her eyes on the prize.
"I live a few minutes from here," she says.
You dismiss yourself and head to the bathroom to formulate a strategy. A black woman stops you and talks your ear off. Christ. The girls are forward this night. The black girl's friends compliment your hair and face, remarking how pretty you are. They ask if you are packing. You smack the black girl's ass and say, "what do your instincts tell you?" while maintaining cold, hard eye contact.

You finally have a piss and strike gold: homegirl has disappeared. You had hoped you could trust her capricious nature to do such a thing. Ah, the predictability of mercurial human nature.

You walk out to the ******. She makes a smart remark about the girl that grabbed you. You lithely dismiss her protests as token and blase. This sort of thing simply happens to you, your body language intimates.

A girl you banged awhile back comes by. She's already drank her dorky date into blasted-ville and he's stumbled off to a cab. The ***** is gobsmacked that ANOTHER girl inside of 20 min's is coming up to you for a takeaway. You and the ******* take a seat. Your arm goes around her. Her hand rests on your thigh. You and her speak in confidence and hushed tones of intimacy. You discuss many things. She is pleasant. You are gobsmacked. She lacks that cold nature so inherent to many American women. There is none of the arms race to prove who is cooler than whom. There is no overt shit testing. Rapport is instinctual between the two of you. The attraction is more than physical. In fact, it lacks an overt physicality b/c it packs a deeper, core recognizance of two like individuals.

You battle to maintain frame. She is disarming you. Her kind demeanor filters inward. Your foundation is strong but you begin to think that this may be one of those times where you break the rules and flip the usual script. You sip your 12th or 15th beer after having had a couple shots. Amazingly, you are still fully functional.
You bask in how different she is from most American women. You tuck her hair behind her ear then give it a slight tug. Her hand moves to the inside of your thigh. You kiss her cheek. She smiles a radiant and coquettish smile. The Latina friend drops her best game on your 3rd buddy. He is taking one for the team.

The clocks winds towards the dying time. The **** asks what you want. She rises to leave when you pause, then you voice that you want to go home with her. She says she would like that too, but she did not drive, and her keys are back at the french girl's place. You tell yourself that she's wanting something longterm.

It's like finding 20 bucks in the snow. You tromp through snow your whole life but remember that one time you found 20 bucks.

You walk into the dark night fully accepting you will never see her again and nothing will come of this night. Nothing ever does.

You wake to a text message she sent after you blacked out.
You walk the hot and humid 20 minutes to your car whilst sweating out last night's revelry and cheap booze. You are not surprised when several cars honk en route.

The barista flirts with you whilst all you want is to get your coffee and disappear.

-With Greatest Fucking Affection

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Minotaur

The above is from Ballistyc's site on Deviant art. Amazing stuff, honestly.

Soundtrack for Today: NIN: "I still recall the taste of your tears...."
Alternative Soundtrack: NIN's Right Where it Belongs

I stared into the sky. I hoped it would swallow me whole and never stop. I could have walked to the nearest bush or tree or cave or overpass and slept for a hundred years or more.
I felt a monumental weariness in every fiber of my being. It wouldn't have been the first time I ended the night under the stars to awaken to the sound of traffic and what passes for life in this modernity. I wished the leviathan would rise from the maelstrom of my mania and make the world go away.

This life as a n'erdowell is a tiresome affair.

For all my lust and rage and masochism....there is no reprieve. I hound and hunt and sprint headlong into excesses in life's facets....... fleeting glimpses of peace and content fall into my lap as my fingers run through her hair, a morning awoken with her by my side, her soft hand in mine, fingertips tracing her back and shoulders.

A war in the gym. A busted lip or a broken rib. I lean against the ring ropes as my heartbeat slows and my breathing grows less haggard. As I am broken I feel whole. I have fought the good fight. I feel several minutes of vacation from myself.

I coach the kids at the gym, for all of whom maybe 1 in 10 or more like 1 in 20 will come to know the pain and glory our chosen sport gives in unequal doses. I should tell them to walk out and never come back. I should tell them to fucking run. No one wins in the fight game. No one gets out of the fight game without paying the price.
No one.
My eyes open each morning to an increasing list of injuries bought and paid for in pursuit of glory on the regional fight scene. I take my mom to dinner. I work in a field none of you would ever imagine/guess.
My mask slips.

The sun sets. The call of the wild builds from silence to a deafening roar of static white noise. I stand at the edge of the abyss overlooking the depths of the brink. Two sides of a coin that flips itself by its own volition. My only part is holding the hand in which it lands.

When I say that I chase the thrill....I've realized that's a misnomer. That's disingenuous.
I miss that peace....that's actually what I'm chasing. The quiet moments of silence and content...b/c it's the hardest quality for me to obtain and it only appears in the aftermath.

This fucking curse.
This dark passenger.

The blessing and the curse.
That need to know...that impulse is the same one that carries my feet up those 4 steps into the ring in front of the mob that cheers for violence.

Without risk, there is no reward.
Good luck and happy hunting my faithful readers. These notes from the underground will continue. I love you all.
Happy Cinco de Mayo! Viva la resistance!
-With Greatest Affection

"But even after admitting this-and I have, countless times, in just about every act I've committed-and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling...."
-American Psycho

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

MMA Fighter/Gangster Interview of the Day


Some history behind Inoue/Kid Yamamoto, Yakuza in Pride.....et cetera.

Close But No Cigar




Headed out with a veritable roundtable gallery of rogues.

My usual wingman, we'll call Benny, a long-time coterie member we'll call Warden, and a 3rd guy we'll call the colleague.

I rolled up first b/c I like some time to acquaint myself downtown and get my fingers on the pulse of the night's vibe. My bartender buddy waved me in. A cougar had been ogling me. She quickly tried to discern my age. Given my choice of hobbies it's proof of my skills that women tend to underestimate my age. She was a cougar par excellence. Tried and true, no rock and from the vibe hadn't been married in awhile. The cougar has a slightly stuck up ( as it would turn out not nearly cute enough to match her ego as per her age....some chicks think having an accent is like 5 million hot points). At any rate, I was polite, as my bartender buddy was gaming the friend and I was placating the cougar who was not of interest to me. She remarked that my face was flawless. Yeah. I almost laughed. I wasn't going to be the one to make her feel young tonight.

Benny rolled up, and I handed off the ball as this bird was not getting diznick from yours truly. I wasn't sure Ward and the colleague would roll up, b/c he's flighty like that from time to time.

I glance over and they had appeared. I shifted my focus from taking part in playful jokery and mother gooseries with Benny and the cougar to chat with my buddies.
My mentor had also appeared from nowhere in stiletto heels a short dress and fake tits.

SO, Ward, colleague, mentor and myself chatted it up.
I saw Ward say a few words to the cougar's friend but thought nothing of it. As the group moved, I returned to the bar and the cougar's friend says: "You should be careful around your friend?"
Nonplussed and wanly, I asked, "Why is that?"
"He said he was 'sorry, [he] couldn't make out with me b/c [he's] getting over a cold."

Deadpan, I remark:" I'm sure he was kidding. It's not that serious."
I had to play it lowkey and not atomic blast the slag b/c my bartender buddy was gaming her.
The cougar decides to throw in her 2 cents from the peanut gallery with:"Yeah, you need to watch your friend" as the friend then goes with the classic bitch line of, "Yeah, I'm offended."
I turn to both of them and in direct line of sight and even tone say, "It's not that fucking serious. He was kidding. If you can't handle it, then that's too bad. Be easy."

I turned and walked away to close my tab.
The colleague was going on and on about this newly divorced girl he's been banging since before she was divorced....and how now that she's saying she's free she's blowing him off.
Le FUCKING sigh.
My buddy Warden and I did our best to give him a crash course in "manning the fuck up" and "scarcity". My mentor chipped in her 2 cents which is more like a million dollars worth a' knowledge. The colleague was listening but not hearing/understanding. You can show someone the door but they gotta walk through it themselves.

My buddy, Benny ended up banging the cougar. Shocker.
--

As it was 2 Brasilierinhas were chatting up Warden and the colleague. I sat and saw the writing on the wall. I saw the binary code. The colleague was going to blow his natural head above the competition by speaking Portuguese and spanish and hailing from the neighboring ***** down south.

I could sleep in my car or grab some diner food and watch the inevitable implosion. I was just hoping Warden's pull wouldn't get sucked in after the backdraft hits.

Being right so much gets to be predictable and irritating.
--

I watched as the colleague brought up the divorcee in conversation.
I shook my head.
He was literally choosing to devalue himself.
He was going on and on about his feelings.
I ate my diner food but appreciated a visual re-affirmation of some key principles.

Respect yourself and others will follow or hit the bricks.
Talking about the past is for losers.
Talking about women from your past or the current is for serious losers.
The distance between a penis and inside a vagina can be millions of miles even if in actuality it is only several inches and some fabric.


As it was, we later stood amidst a crowded club. The dance floor throbbed and pulsed. I was nonplussed. A cute blonde had flagged me down earlier but I was losing steam. Some waif thin exoticas strolled nearby but the Kate Moss/Twiggy body does not elicit a response from your humble narrator.

A black chick with a mohawk flagged me down but I lithely disappeared into the crowd. A squat(ter) than her friends Latina flagged me down with a request to dance. Even if I was looking I'd not be seen dancing with a chubster. Ran into some kids from the gym who asked when I'd be fighting next. Wish I knew folks.
--

I then watched the same guy pull the same implosion the 2nd night in a row.

Unbelievable.
Yet...so predictable.

Might be pickin' up some side work in the social scene.
Good luck and happy hunting my faithful readership.
Be who and what you are and beholden to none but yourself those of your choosing and worth.
-With Greatest Affection

Monday, May 3, 2010

This will sound strange but....




Soundtrack: Blind by Placebo

The drag queen was singing a song by Kelly Clarkson.

It made me think of her.
It made me wish I was home and laying down next to her.

I had played Bingo with a gay friend of mine and another friend of his. I had fended off the normal come-ons one gets at a gay bar.

"Cuz we belong together now
Forever united here somehow
You got a piece of me
And honestly
My life would suck without you"

A large black man flirted with me and complimented my Chuck Taylor's. One of the bartenders who relentlessly tried to fuck me the first time I went to said bar several years ago made idle talk. A socially awkward guy hit on the friend of my friend.

Sometimes, in a place you wouldn't expect, the universe opens up itself to you and you see the matrix. You see the binary code and, for a split second, you see and know and understand. Then the moment passes and you feel as lost as you do much of each passing day.

A short girl in a red dress flirted with me while her boyfriend was dancing by himself. Blase. She was unremarkable.

I sat outside in the warm, night air and looked up to the sky. I saw no stars. The clouds obscured the distant lights.
She made some comment about short girls with dark hair.
I said, "I know. My girlfriend is about your height...but breathtaking."

My buddy dropped me off. I didn't want to knock on the door and wake her roommates...so I tried calling. No answer. I tried calling again. No answer. I walked around to the side of the building. I hoisted myself up and attempted to climb up through the first floor's balcony.

If I'd been a monkey it might have worked. My simian quality points were not high enough.
I got my hands onto the ledge, but didn't trust the fencing to hold all of my body weight. The thought of cracking open my head and no one finding me until the morning also crossed my thoughts at least three times.

I admitted defeat to the balcony/railing, bid adieu and slept in my car. Woke up 4 hours later and drove to my mom's house. Woke up, sipped coffee to rejuvenate enough to pass myself off as a normal person. Put the windows down, slipped on my driving cap, adjusted my tie....and flitted my way to work amongst the others......

"Of how I will always long for you......
if not I'll put my love to sleep...."


-With Greatest Affection

Friday, April 30, 2010

Gusto: Calvin Edition



There is the known and there is the unknown.

Ever since I was a kid, I wasn't much interested in the known.

I've been grinding for awhile now. Beating the same track as one might articulate.

I could sit quietly at my desk until sleep finally and fitfully arrives.

I don't even enjoy being out and about in the capacity that others do. I enjoy the steps carrying me toward a night out. I enjoy the potential for surprise. The monotony is the tithe paid for days on end until that moment which catches even the most jaded off guard, making one stop and pause with a sly grin voicing appreciation and acknowledgment that stones unturned remain for even the most avid rock collector.

A man out of time?
Perhaps.
A man living in a concrete jungle made antiseptic and sterile at nearly every turn?
Likely.
A man uncertain of the choice(s) to make?
Yes.
A man certain that one direction (forward) is the only one which feels compelling?
Yes.

-With Greatest Affection

A key difference between men and women

As a little boy, you learn that if you fuck with the wrong people, sometimes you get owned.
Girls sadly rarely learn this fact of life.

Here is a PRIME example.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Lotta Irony in the News Today: Iran/United Nations Edition

"Just days after Iran abandoned a high-profile bid for a seat on the U.N. Human Rights Council, it began a covert campaign to claim a seat on the Commission on the Status of Women, which is "dedicated exclusively to gender equality and advancement of women," according to its website.

Buried 2,000 words deep in a U.N. press release distributed Wednesday on the filling of "vacancies in subsidiary bodies," was the stark announcement: Iran, along with representatives from 10 other nations, was "elected by acclamation," meaning that no open vote was requested or required by any member states — including the United States."

I mean....wow. Let's just have North Korea run the group attempting to ban Nuclear Weapons while we're at it or the group promoting free speech/an end to censorship or the police state.

For those of you who don't know...the United Nations is battling a scandal virtually the scope of the Vatican sex scandal. ... not to mention the paratroopers who took photos of the boy they burned alive and assaulted.

When I see a cop pull someone over for speeding, or I sat in court for my DUI....It occurred to me, "Really? I'm a 'criminal'?"

Daily News: Absurdity Edition

Before Mexican/Latin immigrants get all up in arms...they should review the laws about illegal immigrants in their own nations of origin.
Shakira will also help out with protests. Not like she's been pumping women as sex objects to sell records for, like....forever. I missed how politically active she was with all the gyrating and body paint and.....um.....y'know.

Rielle Hunter claims she's not a homewrecker (sorta like all the women who banged Tiger)

Sandra Bullock files for divorce and adopts a black baby! You go Girl! Double word score!


Women can be on boats underwater now!

If there is a God...he will grant me a son of this nature/temperament:

Old School: Ring Wars Edition



My first night at a boxing gym, a solid 5+ years ago, I got knocked out. A few days later I came back. I took my knocks and got better. I've never been seriously hurt in a Sanctioned fight. In training and street fights I've done everything from broken ribs, torn my LCL in my knee, torn my oblique, broken my nose who knows how many times...the list is endless. Bleed in the gym and the fights are often comparatively easy.

I blogged the other day about that moment where a couple fakers in the gym and I stared one another down. They were decrying a professional fighter who is still arguably 2nd best in the FUCKING world at 145 lb's.
The two guys talking shit? Lasted less than one round if you combine how long BOTH their fucking fights lasted.....they haven't fought since then. Shocker, right?

As they stood staring me down....I know what they were thinking. They were weighing what they felt were the odds they could take me. They'd seen me coach the kids. They'd seen me work with new people. They'd seen me "let people work," as we call it in boxing parlance. Something they dont' know shit about b/c they are not students of the game like your humble narrator. They know that I train with the best jiu-jitsu guys in the state. They know that I'm a multiple state Judo champion. They know that my standup acumen is actually even better than my Judo and jiu-jitsu.

They also weren't there the all the days I sparred hungover with professional boxers. They weren't there the days I had gone 9 rounds straight after training 5 days in a row previously. They weren't there the days I spar with guys 3-5 weight classes up in full MMA style sparring.
They were at home jerking off or sleeping late.

I don't talk much at the gym. Gym time is work time. Some people need to keep it light-hearted, need to joke, they talk like it's fucking social hour.

Some of the most loyal, generous, and KIND people I know are fighters. Something about being mired in pain, about learning to turn off your empathy and ignoring your own pain seems to grow your capacity for the emotion of kindness. I'm not sure.

The problem?
When you break the creed of the gym...when you step over the line, I'm one of the guys my coach sends in to to establish order. You unnecessarily rough up my training partners? My coach pulls me aside and says, "Don't hold back. Remind him whose gym he's in."

I just nod and smile because the shackles are coming off.

You won't out last me. I'll go 9 rounds hungover after I've already trained 5 days that week. You won't batter me. If you want to start fouling I'll turn old school and do it all from "cuffing" to other Harry Greb style tactics you've never even heard of like "pasting" you through the ropes and stiffarming you out of position while I starch you with right hands, "missing" with a hook to intentionally the bone of my arm against your ribs. You want to bang in close? My elbows will turn you and keep you where I want you. I'll step on your foot super old school and drill right hands down the pipe.

I am a student of the fight game. I know my history and my toolbox is deep. I don't have other hobbies. This is what I do. I don't play Halo. I don't play basketball.
I am fucking at home in the ring. It is the only place where I feel no distraction(s).
I've fought in parking decks, parking lots, alleys, whatever....never once in fights I picked but had to stand my ground, defend a friend, or b/c someone was dumb enough to grab my girlfriend's ass. I walk around at 140-145 lbs and fight at 135....but many a bigger man has made the mistake.

The samurai? The spartans? The roman legions?
All great b/c they were professional soldiers. They were wholly consumed by knowing as much as possible about every facet of their profession: fighting.

Old School Fight Coverage for those that appreciate it.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Paradigm Shift: WTF Edition

Soundtrack: Promise by Slash & Cornell

I'm going to recount some things as of late:

The SLEW of girls who have insulted my drink of choice as some sort of shit test opener.

The girl who faux complimented me solely to set up a knock on my argyle sweater. She was wearing fucking flippy floppies. Seriously.

The FAT girl who demanded I buy her a drink after she accosted me from the street while I stood drinking a beer on the porch.

Watching my buddy ask a girl about the tattoo on her bare arm and her refusing to explain it/acting like him acting was ridiculous then haughtily walking out with her Parliaments in hand.
---

I'm not sure what's happening.
The girls are getting less attractive.
They are acting more entitled than ever.
I have this urge to not even open attractive girls just as a "fuck you" in this ever increasing gender arms race of "who is too cool for whom?"

What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On.
Shit. Is. Bananas.

Le sigh.

Oh yeah. Read it at Seasons of Tumult and Discord.....the most beautiful woman in the world....is a bonafide Cougar.

Fairweather Fans



Soundtrack: some 80's sounding-ish stuff by Muse
Alternative Soundtrack: Rage Against the Machine

I was in the middle of my rounds on the heavy bag.
A commercial for Amp came on. It features Urijah Faber.

It felt anachronistic as in less than 2 years time he's gone from being the legit # 1 fighter at 145 lbs to having his HOME FUCKING TOWN PAPER say he should retire after losing a 5 round decision to Jose Aldo this past Saturday night.

I heard some guy who's 0-1 in MMA say that Urijah looked like shit.
I heard some other guy who's 0-1 in MMA say that Urijah was always overrated.

I stopped hitting the bag. I walked over.

"Fairweather fuckin' fans. You guys don't know shit about fighting."

"What are you talking about?"

"Look at Urijah's resume. He's got stoppage wins over a ton of contenders in his weight class. Curran, Cruz, Pulver, Assuncao....."

"Whatever man. Go back to hitting the bag."

"Urijah fought for 5 rounds with a broken hand against Mike Brown. You wouldn't last 2 minutes in the cage. Oh wait....that's right. Both you guys lasted less than 90 seconds apiece in your fights.....Ha. You guys like to pretend you're fighters. These fuckin' guys.....two guys that between the fuckin' both of you didn't last an ENTIRE round in your fights. You don't know shit about fighting. I could add how long you both lasted together and it wouldn't equal one FUCKIN' round."

Then comes the moment. The questioning moment. We stare one another down. They know I would fuck them up. They know my striking is lightyears better and that my groundwork is also years ahead of theirs. Literal fucking years on the mat. They'd get knocked the fuck out or I'd take an arm home with me.......

They know I'm not a talker. I do shit. You can go on youtube and see me fucking fight. And it's not 90 seconds counting down til' I'm beaten.

I show up fucking hungover and fight up a weight class and still come out with a submission win. I come back from my knee injury and fight a guy with 2 more fights experience and beat the brakes off him.

Fairweather fuckin' fans. Armchair fighters. I fucking loathe them.

Such is life.

People like winners. Everyone knows your name. Otherwise, they don't have time for you. Fuck the fairweather fans.

-With Greatest Affection

On some Real-ness

Hilarity: Hills Parody Edition

Homemade Videos =Better Sex over @ Insurgency, Inc.

Information on party lines and how people viewed the pussies at Comedy Central censoring the Southpark episode referencing Mohamed (oooh shit, I better use spell check, I don't want someone to put out a death order over some inane bullshit like his name). What a ridiculous religion. Oh wait, anyone super certain about something that cannot be prove one way or the other is fucking RIDICULOUS.

Not surprisingly, the "open-minded" liberals were more likely to think that Southpark should have censored the show. I guess open-minded only applies to....y'know, not offending people who base their world view on a religion which idolizes a world view from 1400 years ago and the idea that anyone not of your faith can be put to death.

Yeah, I said it motherfuckers.

On that note:
Hardline evangelicals, muslim extremists, quiverfull Christians, and Absolutely certain atheists are all in the same boat, they just subscribe to a different dogma.

It's when you cannot admit you might be wrong....that you have a fucking problem.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Monday, April 26, 2010

Odds & Ends

Listening to: The Killers

Researching:
1) scandals involving the United Nations: weapon smuggling, sexual exploitation, and brutality
2) War Profiteering during the Vietnam War & the Iraq War

Reading: Bleak House by Dickens

Considering: starting another bankroll for online sports betting
--

Had some recent emails regarding my training/workout regimen. It varies, which is the usual generic answer that won't help any of those that have had the interest/motivation to ask.

A typical boxing workout for yours truly is as follows: 3-4 rounds of shadowboxing, 3 rounds on the speed bag, 3 rounds on the double end bag, 5-6 on the heavybag, 2-3 rounds again on the speed bag, 2-3 rounds on the double end bag.....and ending with progressively slower/relaxed rounds of shadowboxing.

30 second breaks in between, grab water 1-2x during the workout.

Fridays, the speed bag and double end bag rounds are replaced with a minimum of 4-6 rounds of sparring with different training partners. The workout closes with leg lifts, ab exercises, and push-ups.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Break-Up Letters: Closure Version 2.0


:)

Humor for your day


Good luck and happy hunting this weekend my readers. I bid thee well.

Bask in the warmth of the haters.
Be sure to check out Aldo dismantling Faber Saturday Night
:)
-With Greatest Affection

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Requiem



Soundtrack: All the Pretty Faces by The Killers

I trained hard. I helped coach the kids. I felt a moment of content. I felt as though I had given back to a sport that has proved my only respite from mania over the years. If only I could do that on loop, never stopping, never ceasing....if only.

I thought about one day having my own son. I thought about him one day stepping foot in the ring. I thought about how hard this sport is. How much you sacrifice and the long odds of ever being a champion in any regard. I thought about the innumerable events, birthdays, dinners, movies, all the stuff I've missed whilst training.
I thought about my own weakness regarding my vices and the mounting litany of long term/irrevocable injuries that are piling up as father time takes his toll.
The cruelest joke which taunts a fighter: as you learn and get better...time dulls that edge. There is a point of diminishing returns. There is a point of no return where you only lose ability. I thought about the first time I walked up the creaking wooden steps to my first boxing gym.

If I live to be an old man, I'll hobble to the gym, and croak instructions to a crop of young boys seeking escape, redemption, and glory underneath the bright, hot lights of the arena.

I drove home. I knew what was coming. Something stirred. I was not sated. I flitted into the night already knowing the outcome.
I stopped pretending "I'll just have a few beers" awhile ago.

If I could lobotomize the part of me that sends me into the brink I would.
If some catharsis made possible the removal of my dark passenger I would gladly go through the gauntlet.
That same part of me that bids me walk up those steps into the ring/cage does not come with an "off" switch.

The gift and the curse.
They say anyone who says they don't feel fear in the ring is either lying or crazy. Well, I don't feel fear. And that's the truth.
Figures that I'm crazy.
- Be who and what you are.

Great post - read it here