Category: worth reading

Fight Club, Vol. 1

Back in the day, (July 24, 2002 to be exact) I posted this entry to Big Black Glasses about fighting in a semi-legal amateur fight night. At the time, BBG was a communal blog for Mike, Nate (not the one I’ve mentioned lately), Colin, Geever, and two or three other guys whom I may have only met while drunk, if at all. In its current incarnation, BBG is Mike’s personal blog.

I fought at the Raven Fight Club tonight, and got TKO’d. That was three hours ago. My nose is still bleeding. I’m going to do it again, until I win.

Sometime next month I’m going skydiving. Assuming I don’t end up liquefied in a field somewhere, that post will be volume 2.

I frequently wrote short, cryptic posts like this on BBG. They seldom, if ever, made sense to anyone who wasn’t a friend of mine or Mike’s. Here’s the explanation:

Raven Fight Club: There used to be a club where the interstate met the highway in a town that had developed solely for the purpose of drawing business from the interstate exit ramp. The town is called Newville, and the club was called Raven. It hosted small local bands, and it had an unwashed, grimy, dimly lit, unwholesome feel to it. On Tuesday nights during the brief summer it was open, they set up a boxing ring in front of the foot-high “stage.” Sometimes on Fridays and Saturdays, meager crowds would stand apathetically to listen to desperately hopeful young musicians. I went in with some friends from my martial arts club to check it out at Pedro’s suggestion, and signed up to fight sight unseen. I hadn’t checked out the competition, I’d never even seen the ring or the club yet–I packed a mouthguard, signed the waiver, and climbed into the ring as the first bout of the night.

…and got TKO’d: I don’t know the name of the guy I fought. I’m sure the announcer screamed it prior to the fight, but I was too nervous to concentrate on things like that. I don’t remember most of the fight, only brief flashes.
Apparently, it’s not uncommon for people to black out during fights. I had an instructor tell me that when his memory began again after a fight, his five attackers were gone (two or three of which were arrested later in the hospital) and he had a stab wound in his abdomen. I wish I could claim righteous fury or blazing intensity as the source of my memory loss. As it is, I attribute it to my skull being pummelled by a stranger’s fists.

I remember only a few flashes of the fight:

  • My opponent throwing a very slow, very clumsy, back spin heel kick. He obviously didn’t know what he was doing and was trying to impress the crowd. I hopped just out of his reach, then back in to hammer him with a hard roundhouse kick to the chest. Had I been thinking more clearly, I would have gone for his unprotected face.
  • Dazedly facing my corner in the ring and seeing blood on the cushioned post. I wondered disconnectedly if it was mine, and slowly realized that I was in the first fight of the night… that this was my corner… so yes, I must have somehow bled on the post between rounds. What round is this?
  • Getting a hard right hook to the jaw and collapsing to one knee for the second time. I can stand up and fight, I know it… why are you calling the fight? I could have gotten back up and fought. If there was a ten count, I never heard it. I can fight…

My nose is still bleeding: It bled until well past midnight, and friends and club patrons told me several times that it was crooked. I did my best to set it by grabbing it hard between my thumb and the knuckle of my forefinger and yanking as hard as I could. I went to the doctor the next day, telling my parents that there had been a mishap at Tae Kwon Do practice. It wasn’t broken, but it was close. The doctor confirmed that I had broken some of the cartilage, but not enough to cause black eyes or require any medical treatment.

I’m going to do it again, until I win. I never fought there again.

Sometime next month I’m going skydiving. Assuming I don’t end up liquefied in a field somewhere, that post will be volume 2. The post was entitled “Confessions of an Adrenalin Junkie vol. 1.” I never went skydiving.

Now, why, you may ask, am I posting about something that I did almost three years ago? Because I’m planning on doing it again. Raven Fight Club is long dead–someone else bought out the place and replaced it with what appears to be a low-budget Cheeseburger In Paradise. However, Turner Hall has recently started hosting fight night every Wednesday. It’s still small enough that it hasn’t yet attracted the raging psychos that scared me off of fighting at Raven, so I’m going to check out the competition in a couple days. If it’s not too fierce, I’m getting in the ring the week after. It’s the week that Mike’s going to be in town, so I fully expect him to be screaming at me from ringside.

Win or lose, it’ll be a good story.

How to Throw a Party

I’m sure many of you have been wondering, as I once was, “How do I throw a party?” Well, I’m here for you.

First, select a date a couple weeks ahead of time so that people have time to plan around coming. Fridays and Saturdays are best, obviously.

For the next several weeks, mention off and on that you will be having a party at whatever date, and that acquaintance X should definitely come. To discern whether this person has any intention of coming, mention the party, the date, but don’t mention where you live. If he or she is actually considering attending, he or she will ask for directions. If not, stop wasting your breath on this person.

Make sure that you invite a disproportionate number of women and men, preferably far more men than women. This will ensure that the men have no chance of getting laid and the women will leave early to find a party that’s not a “sausage fest.”

If you can, invite at least two people that absolutely despise each other. If you’ve done your work correctly, they should nervously avoid each other until the drinking is in full swing, then launch into an all-out screaming match. If luck is on your side, they may even get a furniture-bustin’ brawl.

The day of the party, clean your house top to bottom. It should look its best for thirty minutes before your guests soak it in beer and vomit. Buy lots of beer and hard liquor and stock your fridge.

Now it’s time to reap the benefits of your efforts. Your good friends show up early, and you don’t charge them, as they’re your good friends.

It’s important to begin drinking early. Have a couple shots with the fat guy. (Every group of friends has a fat guy.) Drink a beer while bitching about your job (or lack thereof) with someone who gets paid far more than you.

Wait for more guests to arrive.

And wait.

By eleven, you can safely assume that no one else is coming. You should be drunk by now, anyway, so it shouldn’t bother you much. But it does. You’re reminded of how many people you’ve pissed off recently, and how the guest list gets shorter with each successive party. Continue to drink.

Angrily.

Around midnight, the last straggler has shown up, but your friends with real jobs and futures have already left. At this point, there will be about a half dozen people left in the room, and you should be loudly boasting about your ability to spit fire. Demand to know if anyone has the balls to do another shot of tequila with you. Glare at the people that are still present and treat them with the misdirected hostility that you’re feeling towards everyone that didn’t show up. Mentally curse the non-attendees and silently vow to never throw another party.

Right about now would be the best time to begin dropping beer bottles and lit fireworks off your balcony. Ideally, you’ll be dropping them onto the large and equally drunk rednecks that live in the apartment below you. Continue this behavior until one comes up the stairs and gives you a well deserved beating.

Somewhere between three and five in the morning, drink a glass or two of water in a vain attempt to stave off tomorrow’s hangover and crawl to bed on all fours. Make sure anyone sleeping over witnesses this to ensure you will be the butt of jokes for years to come. If possible, don’t even bother to say goodnight to anyone. Just shamble out of the room and don’t come back.

The next morning, if all has gone as planned, you will have two dozen half-empty beer bottles and cups scattered throughout your apartment. Everything you own will be covered in a thin layer of beer, and you will have a crushing headache. Don’t expect anyone that spent the night to help you, as they will be busy rummaging through your DVD collection. As you mop up the beer on the kitchen floor and the vomit in the bathroom, they will be looking for the next two movies to watch. Attempts to make subtle hints that they should leave will be fruitless. Your best bet will be to convince them to go somewhere for lunch, get them out the door, and lock the door behind them.

Order a pizza with the fourteen dollars and change donated by your friends to cover the hundred dollars of alcohol they consumed.

The rest of the day should be spent doing the following:
– Cleaning the layer of filth from your living space and personal effects.
– Suffering God’s wrath in the form of a horrifying hangover.
– Periodically cringing as blacked out memories of last night’s idiotic behavior surface through your hangover induced fog. At this point, you may need to begin calling up attendees to ask questions such as, “Why did I throw a knife at you?” and “Whose idea was it for me to ride the bathroom door down the stairs?”

By the end of the day, your home should only be clean enough that it would not be condemned if a housing officer were to stop by. Anything more than that would violate the very uneasy truce that you will have worked out with your spinning head and queasy stomach.

You should go to sleep that night early and still slightly hungover. It’s important that you end the night by muttering to yourself that you will never, ever host another party again.

And that’s it. Not too difficult. The next time you have a party keep those simple guidelines in mind and I’ll sure you’ll be arrested in no time.

[ I should point out that everything here–and I do mean everything–is something that I have personally done. I’ve thrown knives at people while drinking, I spit fire, I’ve been beaten up by rednecks, and I’ve broken down my bathroom door and rode the pieces down a flight of stairs. I’m not proud of all of it, but it makes for some great stories. –Marc ]

And Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Nonsense

Let’s see… hungry, hungry, hungry…

Can’t afford delivery pizza, and I’m not in the mood for it anyway…

Nothing in the fridge…

Nothing in the pantry…

Checking the cabinets…

Here we go. Box mix potatoes au gratin. That should be decent. But is there anything I can add to make it more like dinner? I hate eating a side dish for four and calling it a meal.

Alright, an onion. I can dice some of that up and put it in. That’ll be good. What else have I got…

Canned mushrooms. I hate canned mushrooms. They taste like crap. Oh well. Maybe they’ll be better when taken with everything else.

Searching through the cans… and we have… canned… spinach? Yeah, why not. Plenty of iron in spinach. It’ll be good for me.

What else, what else, what else. What? Canned roast beef and gravy? Who would can roast beef? Where the hell did I even get this? Let’s see… it’s from Aldi’s. Yeah, thanks Mom. Made in BRAZIL?! Who gets canned goods from BRAZIL?! Man, now I’m really reaching. I don’t think this is going to work.

Ah, hell. In it goes.

Mixing, mixing… god, this looks disgusting. The spinach was definitely a bad idea. Oh well. Into the oven it goes. Maybe once it has time to cook it won’t look so… repulsive.

Time for some TV.

[ eighteen minutes pass ]

Let’s see, the box said to check it at twenty minutes. Better check it to be safe.

Oh god.

I’m going to have to eat that?

Why is the whole thing a shade of green that looks like leprechaun vomit?

Um… maybe it will magically be better when I check it in another ten minutes.

[ ten minutes later ]

Damn.

Alright, ten more minutes.

[ the tension builds ]

What? It looks worse?!

Maybe once it sits and cools for a bit. Yeah.

[ still building! ]

Oooh…. maybe not.

This has to be one of the most wretched culinary abominations shat into existence.

:: sigh ::

I hope this tastes better than it looks. Although I don’t know how it could taste worse.

Spinach. It tastes like canned spinach and nothing else.

Damn.

[ yeah, I wasn’t really going anywhere with this. ]