Boxing, heck, not that bad


I have found another sign of proof that I am easily more jaded then I was four years ago. I seem have built up a more stronger tolerance to violence. I haven’t been in fight since I was middle school, but for the majority of my life I had been repulsed by violence. But then college came along, Tarantino suddenly seemed like a cool guy, America seemed to be wrong no matter what decision it made. Suddenly there is something fun about watching two grown men beat the living shit out of one another (see boxing and mma).

This wasn’t that fake fighting thing that we guys had in our boyhood, when we watched Pro Wrestling. Those guys were cool because they were big guys who got to be in fights, but never got arrested or fined or anything. Also, we were terrified of actually taking a piledriver. Girls, we all knew it was fake when we started watching it, but some of us loved pretending it was real. The best wrestling is almost like a fighting ballet, which done right, looked down right spectacular. This filled the niche for us guys because we weren’t allowed to like the women’s figure skating. Truth is, if a true mixed martial arts company had a seven foot tall man on their roster who could claimed to be the undead and draw his power from an old urn, your promotion would consist of that one man. Because no fighter would want to take a real tombstone piledriver or the last ride, the dude even has a sick looking gogoplata choke hold.

Rage came to visit last night after the Mayweather fight was over. It was only this morning that I realized how much I suck as a friend. When I realized absent-mindedly left my apartment to party with fifteen people I didn’t know, I left Rage on my futon playing the Orange Box. I feel that I also may have upset the course of his new lifestyle choices. I could in some sort of trouble here. He seemed to having fun.

I watched the Sting tonight with Jack Danger coming in and out of it. That movie was like the first bromance like ever. I have to say after seeing that movie that I think of it as Paul Newman’s personal love letter to Robert Redford. Each scene in that movie, the infamous Poker scene is the exception, when Newman is in a room without Redford. He seems just a little more sad, like something is missing in his life. Oh, but when Redford returns after almost being run down from a dirty cop, Newman’s face lights. His world seems that much brighter and soft twinkle returns to his trademark, scarily hollow blue eyes that, just maybe, may Satan’s most likely door to the bowels of Hell. There isn’t much talking in any one particular scene with just the two of them, so much of it is conveyed with subtle body movements and eye catching, hiding a secret love that would upset the values of the America 1930’s. Either that or they pulled a scam, either one is fine by me.


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