Day 195: Jens Pulver

I don't make any secret about my love for MMA. I've written about that love before, trying to explain what it is I see in the kicks, punches, and knees. I'm starting to think people either get it or they don't. Some people never get past the "violence." Those that do understand there's more going on than just two guys beating each other senseless inside a cage. I could spent the next five years trying to describe what exactly it is that's going on, at least the way I see it, but I really believe if someone is even really remotely interested in understand Mixed Martial Arts, and martial arts in general, they're better off doing some research and reading first. Read a few biographies of some of the legends. Watch a few documentaries about the sport. Go beyond the posters and movies featuring Bruce Lee and read his writings, listen to his lectures. Put on your philosophical hat for a few hours and listen to their words. Consider their life journeys. View where they came from, where they are, and where they want to be. Martial arts isn't about the violence or kicking someone's ass. It's about honor. Discipline. Focus. Insight. Integrity. For some individuals, it's an avenue out of a horrible situation.

Jens Pulver is someone who belongs in the latter camp. Read his about his background and you'll know how martial arts more or less saved his life. How wrestling first was his savior and then striking, kickboxing, Jiu-Jitsu, and other disciplines saved him later. I've always admired Jens Pulver, for being a world champion and pioneer in the sport, but more so for the straight-forward manner in which he discussed his "childhood from hell" and the daily beatings his alcoholic father put on him and his mother and brothers. I always admired the strength and tenacity he demonstrated in not letting that past swallow him up. I admired his willingness to also show weakness and vulnerability. To not just utter a big "F*ck you!" to a father who was never there in any way but a monster, but to admit it hurt not having his father there as a father. To admit how much it would have meant, and admit that even today he would have cared for such a relationship.

But reading about someone's history and hearing them tell it in first person are two different things. The other week I watched a documentary called "Driven" that centered on Pulver and his past, present, and future. I shed tears several times. I felt some agony, too. I also became inspired and motivated to find someone stronger within myself. The truth is, Jens Pulver has had to fight on way too long and has probably taken on way too much damage to his body and spirit. He can't afford to quit, and he's not good enough anymore to keep going on. His life is shaping up to be a tragic beginning and tragic ending. Still, I can't help to think that someone martial arts will somehow enable him to find a pleasant ending, whether it's teaching the benefits of combat sports to others or helping him find peace of mind.

At any rate, my love of martial arts has only grown more and more over the years. I wish more people understand the truth behind the violence, but that's their journey and responsibility to take on if they desire. There's much to find, however, if the effort is there.

Day 194: The Color Run

 I’ve run more races this summer than I have in the 10 summers previous combined. That’s a good and bad thing. Good in that I’ve gotten my arse off the couch and into gear. I’m healthier. I’m leaner. I’m of better mind and spirit. I feel just a little bit better about myself. Bad in that I let my arse sit on that couch all those years and let the time slip away. Still, it’s a good awakening, this fitness phase I’m currently in. I guess “fitness” is being a little generous. It’s not like I’m tearing up the roadways running my way to lofty heights by any means, but I have to say, the scenery on what little of the roadways I’ve managed to make my way down is a far better than the one I had from the couch.

That’s not to say I was a complete bum over the years. I worked hard for a living and hopefully gave my family a good way of life. I played ball some of those years. I golfed, and I did some bike riding on and off. Plus, I’m an active dad. When my kids were still of the age, I played with them for what I consider to be more than the average dad does. I gave of my time pretty willingly and pretty liberally. With my four-year-old, I think I’ve carried that on. Still, I’ll be the first to admit that playing five innings of softball a week isn’t anything like running several miles at a time several times a week. Not anywhere close. My affection for running hasn’t really grown any over the summer months, and most times I still find it a struggle to stay focused and keep putting one foot in front of the other, but I have to say, my affection for not feeling like a piece of washed-up crap day in and day out fuels me to keep the running up, and I’m grateful for that.

Tomorrow, it’s off to The Color Run in Omaha. Upon completing each 1K of 5K total, I’ll be rewarded by having complete strangers throw environmentally safe paint all over me. By race’s end, me and everyone else taking part will look like human equivalents of a Jackson Pollack painting. Better than that though is the opportunity to just get out and do something different and novel. Day to day life can be so mundane and repetitive. A venue to get a little crazy is definitely welcome. Plus, the ability to even get up off the couch and put one foot in front of the other isn’t lost on me. I’ve grown to really value of the ability to work toward being physical fit, to create some personal goals and challenges, and then have the focus to go out and make them happen. Not everyone has that ability.

Life is short. Kooky events like The Color Run make life stretch a little longer. They give you something to look forward to. They give you some strange moments to share with others. I love strange. Looking forward to seeing my friends and family get kooky, too.

Day 193: Not Every Pet Is Created Equal

In some ways, I think comparing pets is sort of like comparing kids. You shouldn’t do it. A pet is a pet, after all. Sure, some are easier to care for than others. Some might be more affectionate. Some might be more protective. Some might even be a bigger pain in the neck. Still, a pet is a pet, and if you really care for each equally and invest the same amount of time and give of yourself with the same enthusiasm, shouldn’t the love you provide each also be the same?

Well, no, actually. It would be nice, but it doesn’t work that way usually. It’s a hell of a lot easier to love a good dog than a hermit crab. It’s a hell of a lot easier to cozy up with a cat than a turtle. It’s a hell of a lot easier to get instant feedback from a faithful companion that a damn goldfish that is only looking for its next meal to come magically falling from the sky. At least in my experience with pets, that’s the way it’s been, and we’ve had a few pets roll through our house over the years. Dogs, cats, fish, birds. A ferret. A rabbit. Hermit crabs and rats. Frogs. Flipping zoo.  

That said, I still hate to compare one dog that has been part of my life to another. I always feel bad when I do it. I feel worse when I badmouth one of my pets, but I can’t say it stops me from doing it. Take our current dog Slim, for example. He’s a purebred chocolate lab that is beautiful and the picture of grace when he’s out in the wild running to and fro. In our house, though, he’s a complete tool and dofus. The biggest part of the day is hoping that some morsels will fall from my daughter’s plate into his wide-open waiting mouth. Sincerely. That’s all he lives for. If those morsels don’t come, he’ll just adlib and snatch up whatever else isn’t tied down. And when I write “whatever else,” I mean it. Pans of bacon grease. Entire tubs of bubblegum, wrappers and all. Ears of corn from my garden. Loaves of bread. Cat extract. Jars of Vaseline. You name it, he’s eaten it. I love Slim, and he’s a good protector, and I value his dopiness on some level, but he tests my patience each and every day, and he without a doubt makes life harder than it has to be.

Our current cats are much the same. They’re both male, and they’re both weird. I like them, and occasionally they’ll even put aside the quirky ways long enough to sit on my lap and watch a little television, but for the most part they keep to themselves and engage only on their terms. That’s pretty much true of all cats, I suppose, so it doesn’t upset me too much. Like Slim, our cats, Lou and Beck, are good pets, but there seems to be a ceiling to which our relationship will never extend beyond not matter how much time and energy we spend together.

This kind of distance between a pet and its owner seems to become so much more obvious when the owner has previously had that once-in-a-lifetime pet that transcended the obvious human-animal barrier. Miles and Scout were those kinds of pets. Miles I miss every day. There are reminders of him all around our house in the form of photos and old dog collars and even his paw prints permanently etched on paper, but more often than not, those reminders make it only harder to accept he’s not following me around from room to room and that I won’t ever hear his booming snore deep in the night again. He was a friend’s friend in every sense that a human is a friend. The only difference is we couldn’t speak actual words. We didn’t really need to, though. There was an understanding still.

Loyal and reliable. Protective and dependable. Loving and caring. Affectionate and pure. Miles was there when you needed him but never seemed to ask for anything but a bowl of food once in a while in return. He watched over my kids and my house. He played with my daughters and tolerated their tugging and pulling. He made friends easily and was loved by pretty much anyone who crossed paths with him. He got into trouble, but it wasn’t hard to forgive him.

When Miles got sick and his future days were numbered, it broke my heart in ways that I didn’t know possible. He wasn’t my first pet by any means, but he was the most difficult to let go of by far. I’d literally take years off my own life if it were possible to bring him back, he meant that much. He unified my family in ways we didn’t know when he was alive, and I couldn’t be more thankful for his presence. People who discount the importance of pets or belittle animals’ importance in general are morons. Straight-up morons.

Scout we had for 15 years. We got her, along with Cleo, the same year my daughter was one. We watched all three grow up together, and Scout became my buddy. We watched TV together, we read books together, and we tolerated the chaos and madness that was at work in my house together. We snuck off to quiet spots together and when time would allow, took naps together in the peace and quiet. Scout was a beauty, and just like the little girl in “To Kill A Mockingbird” that she was named after, Scout was independent and could hold her own. Watching television late at night hasn’t been the same since she has gone.

Day 192: This Machine Kills Facists

On July 14, Woody Guthrie would have been 100 years old if still alive. If alive, you can be damn sure he’d still be kicking ass and taking names. You can be guaranteed he’d be fighting for the poor and disenfranchised. You can be guaranteed he be appalled and disheartened, as well.

I love my country, and I believe Woody firmly did, as well. But it’s hard to dispute there’s much that could not be made better, and it’s hard to dispute that there’s a great many people who could use lifted up. That’s what Woody Guthrie spent his life attempting to do: lift up those who needed it. God knows, he went about in his own unique, slap-to-the-face manner, but God knows, he inspired a hell of a lot of people along the way to do the same for others who needed the helping hand.  

My first exposure to Woody Guthrie was the same as most people’s—singing “This Land Is Your Land” in grade school. That just so happens to be one of the first songs I learned on guitar, primarily because it’s easy to play, but also because it’s a beautiful protest song full of controlled rage and anger. Better, it’s a song written for and to be sung by every American. Not just the rich. Not just the land owners. Not just the privileged. EVERY AMERICAN. Read the lyrics. Recognize the “fog.” It still exists, and it still needs lifting.

When the sun came shining, and I was strolling

And the wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling

A voice was chanting, As the fog was lifting,

This land was made for you and me.

My real education into Woody came through Bob Dylan. You can’t admire and be a follower of Dylan without admiring and being a follower of Woody. Dylan’s story of meeting Woody is a famous and well-known one, but for those who don’t know it, Dylan bummed rides from Minnesota to New York City while still just a kid with the primary objective of meeting his hero, Guthrie. When he got there, he learned Woody was holed up in a hospital getting ready to die, so he made his way there instead. They met, Dylan sang for him, and the rest is history.

I admire Woody’s travels.

I admire “Bound For Glory.”

I admire Woody’s friendships.

I admire the way he played guitar.

I admire the influence he had on Ramblin’ Jack Elliott.

I admire that Billy Bragg has spent years carrying on Woody’s efforts.

My favorite Woody Guthrie song is “Do Re Mi”  

For years, a poster hung in the apartments I lived in and then the house I shared with my wife and kids that bore the words listed below. I’ve always wondered how many of my kids’s friends, or even if my kids read the words and if they got any meaning from them over the years. I look at my kids and the way they carry themselves and how they treat and regard people less fortunate than themselves and I believe they did.

"I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard traveling.

I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built.

I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work.”

Woody Guthrie

Day 191: Giant Silva

As I type this, I'm watching a 7' 2" inch man called Giant Silva lumber around a boxing ring, trying his damnedest to fight a guy roughly a foot smaller than himself in an MMA fight. It's a sad sight really. The poor man can barely walk two steps in a row let around dance around the ring gracefully. Hell, he looks like a cartoon, and I don't mean that to be demeaning; it's just the truth. 

It makes me wonder why we are born the way we are. Why are some of us tall, others small? Some born one color and others different altogether? Why are some of us born without sight or hearing and others without limbs? Why are some born intelligent and others without any wits at all. Is it the luck of the draw. Is it genetics? Is it God's will. A combination of all?

Truth be told, I'm thankful I'm not Giant Silva. I'm grateful I'm just a run of the mill guy with average looks and average intelligence. It's not so bad being average. It leaves you room to work your way up. It leaves room to fall a bit, too. No one is gawking at me because of my height. No one places any stereotypes or expectations on me based on appearances alone. It's a good life being normal, whatever that means.

But who am I to pity Giant Silva? I don't know the man. Maybe he's happy being a giant. Maybe it's brought joy and happiness to his life. Maybe being tall has brought him opportunities that he'd have otherwise never experienced. Hell, Giant Silva has probably traveled and seen things I never will, and all because he's a giant. He's probably met more interesting people than I'll ever know. Maybe he thrilled with his natural born fortune. I don't know. 

Still, based on what I do know, I'll stick with what nature gave me. It's served me well. I've seen my own share of things. This average body and average abilities has shown me tremendous beauty, filled my ears with tremendous sounds, taken my mind on tremendous journeys. I guess I don't envy Giant Silva, but I guess I shouldn't pity him either. 

Day 190: Doing Battle With The Beast

Some days you find out what you’re made of, or at least you find out what you can tolerate. Today was one of those days. I took a vacation day Friday, which pretty much guaranteed that Monday would be hell.

My job isn’t one in which the guy sitting next to me is able to just pick up the pieces when I’m gone and cover me for. Nope, everything I leave behind is waiting for me when I get back. Either I do it before I go or I better be prepared to weather the storm when I return. Both options are tricky to navigate sometimes, and both options present their own unique snags.

So, I knew what I was in for this morning upon returning to my desk. What I didn’t know was that I’d be tackling it with a killer headache that would last all day, and I didn’t know how many more little morsels would fall on my plate throughout the day to tackle. Such is the nature of the beast.

Still, despite everything I was staring down, I managed to pull away long enough at lunch to get in a run (with headache in tow), return to the battlefield, and finish everything I needed to--plus some.

I set my expectations fairly high where some things are concerned. Others not so much. Where work is related, though, I don’t like to turn in crap. The words I write represent me, and I like to be well-represented. The people who I consider good at the same job I do don’t turn in crap, either. That’s a good trait to have. It’s also one that requires commitment. That’s not bad, either. But that doesn’t mean that obtaining such a level of commitment isn’t taxing at times, and it sure doesn’t mean it isn’t challenging. Meet the various challenges that the day throws at you, however, and you’ll walk out the door feeling better than you did walking in, no matter how mentally fatigued or physically exhausted you are. That’s the nature of that beast.

So in summation, beast, we met again today. You lost. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon, though, and you can take your best shot again. I’m not hard to find, sucka.

Day 189: Digging Deeper

Things are never as bleak ad they seem, but that doesn't mean it is easy looking past that. This is one of those days, but you just keep walking.