We should keep drilling...since it's working out so well

Just look at that mess.

I was going to write a huge rant on just what a complete shit-show this is, but...my buddy Hanley does rage better than I do.  Worth a read.

Drill Baby, Drill

Shane Mosley vs. Floyd Mayweather Jr.

My pugilistic preview piece got picked up by the folks over at No BS Boxing, a boxing news site and on-line forum.  For fight fans, this is a huge showdown between two of the biggest stars in the sport.

From my article...

The current age of boxing sells the paying public on the concept of super fights. Titles don’t matter and weight classes don’t matter. Even a fighter’s recent poor performance or lack of activity can be overlooked, so long as he can be properly packaged into something that fans are willing to pay for. A case in point would be 2007’s version of “The Fight to Save Boxing,” featuring Oscar De La Hoya and Floyd Mayweather. Coming into the fight, De La Hoya had been in the ring a mere 6 times in the last 5 years, going 4-2 during that span. The fight was held at 154 pounds, a weight that Mayweather had never fought at before, and has not since. Despite the fact that many more “relevant” fights could have been made, none could have been as profitable, and the Cinco De Mayo showdown set records for revenue and PPV buys. Other examples include the Roy Jones Jr. and Bernard Hopkins farce, Manny Pacquiao vs. De La Hoya, and many others.

In a break from the norm, this Saturday features a true super-fight. Floyd Mayweather (40-0) and “Sugar” Shane Mosley (46-5) have been engaged in a cold war for over a decade. Despite call-outs from each camp over the years, the fight never materialized. Until now.

Read the rest here

Sunday Night Motivation

"The world is not perishing for the want of clever or talented or well-meaning men.  It is perishing for the want of men of courage and determination."

- Robert J. McCracken

Learning to Take it Easy

I feel like I waste a lot of time.  Most of the time when I feel I am being unproductive, it is when I am playing around on-line.  While checking and playing around on facebook, proving people wrong on internet forums and keeping up to date on the most minor of details that happen in the sport of boxing would certainly qualify, by any definition, to be wasted time, I do not always have a productive alternative.  Sometimes, there really is nothing to rush for, and I don't know why I have such a hard time relaxing and taking things slower.  I mean, if I am going to play around on the web, I might as well just call that 20-30 minutes a wash and enjoy myself rather than feel guilty the whole time.

Another example was with my parents this last weekend.  Rather than deal with finding parking in Los Angeles, we just walked everywhere.  Both my Mom and my Dad noticed and checked out everything on every walk.  They noticed much more about my new neighborhood in 2 days than I have in almost a month.  They commented and examined every flower garden of every neighbor that we passed, they noticed a building that says "Martin," and they pointed out dozens of cool new restaurants that I should try.  After a while, it even started to irritate me, as if we were taking too long exploring cool stuff and talking to interesting people, when we should be charging it towards our destination.  I had to remind myself that we weren't on any schedule, had no reservations anywhere, and that talking to each other while walking was the same as talking anywhere else.  

I don't know what I am trying to get done, or where I am trying to go so quickly, but I need to chill out.  Doing something enjoyable is reason enough for doing it...providing of course, that said action is of the legal and ethical variety.  That's why it should be ok for me to lie on the sofa and read a novel for a few hours if that is what I feel like doing.  

Of course, some discipline is needed, but looking at things objectively, I have to admit that I am progressing in all areas that I care about progressing in.  Professionally, I am doing well enough.  I have more freedom than most, in a job that gives me satisfaction and a sense of pride for the work that I am doing, for a salary that works for my lifestyle.  Athletically, I am accomplishing my goals.  While I will still compete in amateur boxing, I am willing to let the sport be second (or 3rd or 4th) in my life.  I have been training consistently, sparring when it is available, and learning and growing.  As a brother, son, grandson, and friend, I would like to be better.  But I am there for people when they need me, and I feel like my relationship with my immediate family gets better all the time.  So...things are going well.  And while I hope to never be satisfied and complacent, I am going to try to enjoy myself and live more in the moment.  Maybe I'll even check out the neighbor's flower garden.

Today I want to do things to be doing them, not to be doing something else.
I do not want to do things to sell myself on myself. 
I don't want to do nice things for people so that I will be "nice."
I don't want to work for money, I want to work to work.
Today I don't want to live for,
I want to live.


- Hugh Prather, "Notes to Myself"

War Helmets, Beer, Sweat & Fire

Last weekend, Dennis and I competed in the Southern California version of the Warrior Dash.  I was going to wait until they posted the pictures, but they are taking their time, and I just can't stand it anymore.  Disregarding what that says about my patience levels, the first question is probably "what is a warrior dash?"  First of all, it's actually WARRIOR DASH, in all capitals, because it's just that awesome.  Lower case letters are for chumps.

The Warrior Dash is a 3 mile race, complete with cool obstacles like jumping over fire, crawling through the mud, climbing a cargo net, wrasslin' alligators, and the like.  People get all dolled up like various warriors throughout history.  There were Spartans, Ninjas, Samurai, Knights, a few "300" rejects, and quite a few less identifiable types, one of which had goggles and a sparkly purple cape.  I kind of wanted the cape.  It looked like something Clara would make me if I still lived in San Francisco.  Much like my shiny crown that I got for being King.  Or maybe it was my birthday...I don't recall at the moment.

Anyway.  The race was held in a lovely part of California known as Lake Elsinore.  The town is basically a dust bowl with a small...I hesitate to call it a lake, but I suppose that's the official term.  Swimming in it would most likely result in the unfortunate individual growing a third arm...probably out of their forehead. 

Dennis and I carpooled, while he bitched and whined about driving his BMW on the dirt parking lot.  We signed in, registered and collected our goodie bags.  As far as I was concerned, we could have left right then.  I was finally the proud owner of a kickass war helmet.  Fuzzy and with white horns on the sides.  Goddamn, it was cool.  Dennis wore his with the horns forward and back, like he was a freakin' rhino.  I kind of wished I had thought of the idea first. 

The goodie bags also included a ticket for one free beer apiece.  Dilemma.  We had been fore-warned that the line to collect the beers was ridiculous in the afternoons after the races were over.  We had time to spare, and you can only look at so many costumed freaks dead sober.  In unspoken agreement, we headed to the beer gardens to collect.  As warriors should, we chugged, rather than sipped our brews, and then headed back to the start line.  Both of us were pleasantly surprised by the volume and quality of the the female...umm..warrioresses.  Dennis nodded approvingly. 

We were both registered for the Noon wave, and we got up near the front of the starting line.  A few hundred others joined us.  The DJ got us revved up with some AC-DC and Metallica before leading us into a few deep and bass-heavy war cries.  With a huge shot, they sparked a giant flame-thrower thing, and fire exploded 10 feet above our head.  Dennis and I exchanged a fist-pound like we were the Obamas, and we were off.  One guy in a referee costume sprinted ahead, and I settled into a small group 5-6 places back.  Realizing that I would not be able to sustain a dead sprint for over 3 miles, I eased back slightly and found a good pace somewhere around 10th-12th place.  A few people dropped back as they came to the same conclusion that I had.  I started regretting the beer that I had pounded right before.

The first obstacle was bounding up and over bales of hay.  Not too bad, and I gained a few places.  Almost immediately was the second one, and we got to hop and over a bunch of old cars.  It felt good to smash the hoods with my heels.  A wooden wall to clamber over was next, and I started getting annoyed with all the obstacles getting in the way of my running.  The next one was probably the worst for throwing off your pace, as you had to drop and crawl through a tunnel.  I think I was around 6th place by then, and dying a slow, irritable and petulant death, while blaming Dennis for forcing the beer on me.

We had about a half mile respite, before traversing thin wooden planks over a shallow ravine.  That one was no problem.  The course then took us to water's edge, and we plunged into the waist-deep water in order to vault ourselves over some wooden logs set there to piss us off.  This was the worst obstacle, as everything was now soaked.  The first steps on solid ground were miserable, as our shoes felt like they were made out of cement.  I passed somebody here, and I was in 4th.  At this point, my faulty memory convinced me that everyone who places in the top 3 per heat got prizes, so I picked up the pace.  I ran over the jungle of old tires, and gained on the guy in 3rd.  The cargo net was easy, but I appreciated the chance to rest slightly.  I passed the guy in 3rd shortly before we got to jump over a blazing inferno, and he dropped back almost immediately.  I told myself it was obviously because I killed his heart by passing him.  The best obstacle was the last, and you got to dive into a pit of mud.  There was razer-wire above the bog, so you had to really get in there.  Which was pretty fun.  I love playing in the mud.  I was securely in 3rd, but too far away to make a push for 2nd, so I didn't kill myself on the last stretch.  I upped the ante slightly, but fell short of a flat-out sprint to finish.  

I crossed the finish line to be handed a regular medal.  Not a 3rd place medal, but a regular medal.  Apparently, only people who place for the entire DAY get better prizes. 

I whined to myself while I waited for Dennis.  I consoled myself by recognizing that I got first place out of everyone who was wearing their war helmet during the race.  VICTORY!  God, I love the sweet nectar of victory.  Yum.

Dennis came charging up shortly after, and we dunked ourselves in the "lake."  More fist pounds.  

As we were out of free beer tickets and/or money, we took off to our buddy's house for beer and BBQ.  More free beer.  We showed off our war helmets and shiny medals.  At some point, my man Mike had enough beers for us to convince him that he should go swimming in Lake Elsinore.  He hopped in, clothes and all.  Two kids heard us laughing and came over to check out the joke.  They were greeted by the sight of a 6'6" monster, stumbling out of the lake like a black Jesus coming for their souls. 

Having came, seen and conquered, we headed back to the car for the long drive home.  Post-run fuel was brought to you by Boston Baked Bean candies, which were amazing.  Nom Nom Nom.

I passed out by 9:30am.  

A day later, we were able to check our scores.  I got 25th out of the 2599 person field.  So...no bigger medal.  This gave me a sad.