Wednesday, March 31, 2010

MMA is Aging

Is it just me, or are MMA matches losing variety? Lately, it's bad boxing, mediocre kicking to the legs, double leg takedowns, and guillotine chokes. Some guys are good at staying active by landing some arm punches and elbows while grappling. The guys who go for submissions seem to give up the edge on those arm punches and elbows for little benefit: any submission attempt stands a very low probability for success. Even BJ Penn, a grappling master, just boxes for most of his fights; he saves ground fighting for when his opponent is busted up and tired. James Toney signed with the UFC; I think he might bring a breath of fresh air into MMA. His opponents will have to take the fight to the ground, and work submissions. Anyone trying to exchange punches or knock "Lights Out" to the canvas will just end up losing in short order.

If you saw Arthur Abraham fight Andre Dirrell over the weekend, you saw a single punch against a helpless opponent damn near cause a fatality. I see them all the time in the UFC, though; most knockouts start out with a knockdown, followed by an uncontested punch to the face on a near unconscious opponent. That same punch is illegal in boxing because it ends lives. I'm still unconvinced that cage fighters punch anywhere near as hard as a champion puncher in the ring.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Arthur Abraham

He needs to be banned. That is a horrible, intentional foul. I'm beside myself. Bad judges are one thing, that was far beyond what should happen even in a boxing ring. Abraham was losing the fight, and damn near killed Andre Dirrell tonight by hitting a downed fighter. I'm disgusted.

Thursday, March 25, 2010


It's been 16 years. I'm no better now than I was in the beginning; I just know more about how to deceive the rest of you and myself into believing I'm well. No one likes this part of me, even if it's the only thing I want to share sometimes.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

The Future in Copper, not Gold

My father served in the military for twenty years, and his service is the only reason why I can get the medical support I need to survive. My medication costs over four thousand dollars a month retail. Watch health care reform from my view: there are very expensive ways to treat schizophrenia, and very cheap ones. In the end, I suspect that a government-controlled health care system will trim their expenses and mandate the inexpensive option. That means even more Tardive Dyskinesia for me, and a future filled with Haldol, which is cheap as dirt. It's the just good enough solution I get on a daily basis from Annapolis and the Democrats who run the statehouse. If the U.S. government does a better job than that, I'll eat some crow. Until then, I only ask the left to please let me be a part of the opposition without lectures on soul, fear, and greed. My life matters. My suffering matters. My opinion matters. I'm neither evil, nor wealthy; I'm just a very sick person who has seen the inside of health care. Quite honestly, I'm afraid for my future, and I don't trust Nancy Pelosi, Barack Obama, or their inevitable successors with the keys to my continued suffering. If the government mandates that I need to have crueler, harsher, less expensive treatment, I'm pulling the plug. I won't switch to Haldol, Thorazine, Prolixin, or any of the other cheap alternatives.

Monday, March 22, 2010

They Don't Sleep

I'm alone with daemons that don't sleep. Now they have me, so I cannot sleep, either. Things are a lot worse than I've been telling people; I'm lost. One hand is heavier than the other, and neither want the mailed fists I made for them; they yearn for something softer, but too elusive for a Monster like me. Monsters aren't evil, we are just not you or anything close. Even if I kept the secret again, these words will never amount to the love and care put into them. That is the Philosophy of the Monster.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Very Wrong, Pacquiao is the Champ

It's obvious that Manny Pacquiao learns a lot from Freddie Roach. Pacquiao's feet are as fast as his hands; his defense is much improved. This is not the same fighter that knocked Marquez down thrice in the first round, but couldn't finish. Manny's better now: he has a jab, a right hook, a monster left hand, and enough defense to get him through to his opponents. Well fought, Manny. Floyd beware, for this guy has a chance at you.

Friday, March 12, 2010

My Pick

I'm picking Clottey to win by KO in the 10th round. Pacquiao is a great lightweight; he's no welterweight.

Monday, March 08, 2010


Watch all seven if you have the time. No one should ever forget what this man and his peers did. This is the most ghastly thing I can remember seeing live or in video. He is cold. For some reason, twelve thousand per day is a reasonable body count for him, and he's indignant about reports of eighteen thousand. WWII didn't have to happen, and it sure as hell didn't have to be as messy in Europe as the Germans made it. They can't claim ignorance about the Gospel: every last German should have known better.

I wrote a comment to the video poster on the youtube website rebuffing Holocaust deniers. They know no shame.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

Not Much Else

I reconnected with an ancient friend today, but not much else. The Many-Armed Knight crossed my path several times today, but I'm not letting on. Perhaps he will be gone in time for me to play some Warhammer tomorrow. I haven't played in a while, and I want to get back on the gaming table, if only to prove I still can. The space in here is small, sometimes. Tonight is that sometimes. Where there's The Many Armed Knight, Prester Bane is sure to be nearby, if only in terms of time. He has no face.

Tuesday, March 02, 2010


I regret it all. At least in my past, I had something pretty to write. Now I feed those close to me to an insatiable solitude. The result is not an act of love, or even of my own choice; it's just clearer to me now that I'll probably be alone forever, regardless of anything I think or do. In my past, when I called Obsession another name, at least I could feed verses to that solitude. Now, pretty words won't suffice. In the past few years, I've forgotten the reasons why I started writing poetry: it's a substitute for society. Sure, the words were "Love," "Red," "Blue," and "Christine," but the meanings were Solitude, Delusion, Deception, and Imagination. I lost those. Now, I'm left not with a delusion or elaborate psychosis to chronicle; my words were never as beautiful again. Perhaps the words I destroyed were the best; I often say they were my best, but truthfully, I've forgotten everything but the colors. I won't mention them; I'm trying to destroy them, too. I can't stand that beautiful lie any more. It's not like I ever touched Love anyway, at least as Solomon felt it. I also know I could still hold the original beauty in my words if I hadn't tried to join the rest of you. I had a taste of beauty and truth that mimicked John Keats. Now I can't forget or ignore that flavor of life, even if what I tasted was neither beauty nor truth, rather the sourest form of delusion and deception. The deception wasn't mine, but the delusions were.

Delusions continue to drive everything, even this. Every time I check the distance, my watery lair is deeper, and twice as lonely: silence confirms it. I've seen people adjust to society and float like a duck on the water. I am not a person; I am a monster from deep water, and that is where you'll find me. Floating is for the buoyant; my hope doesn't float, it sinks like a rock. Understand that my lair is not a fortress to keep you out; it's a prison to keep me in. I'll send a blog and an occasional poem to confirm my outside position, but circumstances stay the same. I'm left with Truth and the delusions to obscure it. Keats' urn was wrong for monsters, and always will be. Beauty is not Truth, nor Truth Beauty for my kin; Pain is Truth, and Truth Pain. When I'm wounded by truth, the deep tunnel to my Pain is opened through my heart. I can't fill it with poetry any more. I crumble under Colors, and struggle with Solomon to understand that I can't even fill it with bullets. There just aren't enough bullets.

I fear only that my solitude will follow me forever. Sleeping through the night in the arms of the Lord would be nice, but I don't wake up smiling, even if that's the way I start my slumber. I rise with punches at phantoms, and screaming protests denying my muteness. If I stayed with seven years of safety instead of risking six months on trying to be a person, I might hold on to beauty and a muse today. Unfortunately, I can't grip anything with my head in my hands trying to coax water from my eyes as a lubricant for my pain. My palms still grind my face.