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Mar. 15th, 2012 09:11 amI've been involved in the grappling arts about seven years and in martial arts period about a decade. In that time i've seen a lot of people come and go. Most never make it to blue belt, overwhelmed by life, injuries or the neccesity to willingly shove your head into somebody's armpit for two hours a day, at least twice a week. And if I had to split up why i've seen people do this hobby more than any other, it would be image.
Now this is distinct from what people say they're into it for: self defense, fitness, they wanna tell their juggalo white trash friends that they learned from a real MMA fighter next time an argument about chicken strips or Kid Rock or whatever that kind of person actually talks about turns ugly (confession time: i'm an East Coast snob, the kind of person who, if he could afford it, would subscribe to The New Yorker; don't go on a date with me, you will get so bored that your hands start spontaneously closing around your carotid arteries in an instinctual seeking after the sweet mana of unconsciousness).
But what they're really into it for is to be some version of a Badass. It manifests itself in different ways depending on the art. In the traditional martial arts (whatever that means at the moment) it's all about being a wise noble samurai shaolin monk who can annihilate you with a precise and deadly mushroom stamping but is also much too at one with the universe to actually fight. It's kindof like if you turned Orientalism into a cult religion and took it as a set of instructions instead of a criticism. In the STREET BASED martial arts, you wanna come off as a barely controlled Judge Dredd style, camo wearing, ex special forces, 90s era gritty antihero. This almost never works because a sysadmin from a flyover state pretending to be gangsta is like a cricket trying to pass itself off as Ron Jeremy's escaped dick.
If you're in the sporting martial arts, it's almost guaranteed to be MMA. Even if you have no intention of setting foot in a cage (as I do), even if your stomach and ass look like the gently rolling dunes of the Sahara and you get winded by a two minute beatoff, if you're in some way involved in the combat sports or even just watch a lot of MMA, there's a good chance you've told someone you're Gonna Get A Fight Soon.
Now some of you will protest that you're really in this for something deeper, some transformative thing that will unlock the Iron John buried deep inside. 46 and 2 by Tool is playing on your ipod this very minute. There's dozens of uncreative articles about the way MMA can put you in touch with your inner he-man and also the softening of today's man into effeminate poofs with an unspoken attack on feminism riding its coattails like a needy child.
In response I say, fuck off. MMA isn't going to get you in touch with your inner caveman because there's nothing there for you to get in touch with. Your image of primal masculinity is a Gigerian synthetic monstrosity, leaking its own contradictions in an acidic mess all over the floor. But better writers than me have handled this subject before, so I won't tangent too much.
Reading this, some of you are going to get your dicks in a knot because i'm calling in to question the validity of your vision quest you set to Bodies by P.O.D. What you (we) do is hard. There's sweat and punching involved. Silly fat men sit on your head. And yeah, training a legitimate combat sport is hard and competing is even harder. But there are lots of hobbies that are just as hard/dangerous: ballet, tennis, sculpting (get an injury casting brass and tell me how bad your tweaked shoulder felt in comparison!), crossdressing, archery, noodling, deep diving. And while these are certainly things to boast about, they're not held up as life changing affirmations of how hairy our nuts are.
Things that are harder and/or more dangerous than training or competing in MMA: giving birth, living to twenty in Palestine, living through/with AIDS, cancer, Parkinson's or any other disabling long term condition, being homeless, raising a kid on food stamps, being a political prisoner, there are so many more. But young men aren't bragging about how all that hanging around under cell phone towers and eating irradiated meat is gonna pay off any day now.
What we have to do then is accept that what we're in an unusual hobby that's no more badass than any other. Repeat sincerely to yourself after every practice that what you're doing is no more worthy of praise than someone who crochets a sweater, makes scented candles or does an all night all camp revue. Do this like it was a Hail Mary and you got caught doing something unspeakable into the unconsecrated host. Or whatever's sacred to you, you get the idea.
Only then can you start to really enjoy this shit. That's when the inherent fun in the game can come out. That's when you'll train like a maniac, when you let go of the image you're striving for. As i'm typing this I have a bursitis so bad that my right knee looks like it's going through puberty and I want to get out there and try the stuff from this Demian Maiah DVD so bad it's like i've got to pee. I'm going to immobilize my knee and roll tomorrow and the day after and lift weights on the weekend. This injury was caused by grappling, even worse injuries have been caused by it in the past, and more are statistically inevitable and I don't care because i've done my best to say goodbye to my inner desire for badassitude. There he is, walking away into the sunset, his trenchcoat blowing in the breeze that exists specifically for it.
Now this is distinct from what people say they're into it for: self defense, fitness, they wanna tell their juggalo white trash friends that they learned from a real MMA fighter next time an argument about chicken strips or Kid Rock or whatever that kind of person actually talks about turns ugly (confession time: i'm an East Coast snob, the kind of person who, if he could afford it, would subscribe to The New Yorker; don't go on a date with me, you will get so bored that your hands start spontaneously closing around your carotid arteries in an instinctual seeking after the sweet mana of unconsciousness).
But what they're really into it for is to be some version of a Badass. It manifests itself in different ways depending on the art. In the traditional martial arts (whatever that means at the moment) it's all about being a wise noble samurai shaolin monk who can annihilate you with a precise and deadly mushroom stamping but is also much too at one with the universe to actually fight. It's kindof like if you turned Orientalism into a cult religion and took it as a set of instructions instead of a criticism. In the STREET BASED martial arts, you wanna come off as a barely controlled Judge Dredd style, camo wearing, ex special forces, 90s era gritty antihero. This almost never works because a sysadmin from a flyover state pretending to be gangsta is like a cricket trying to pass itself off as Ron Jeremy's escaped dick.
If you're in the sporting martial arts, it's almost guaranteed to be MMA. Even if you have no intention of setting foot in a cage (as I do), even if your stomach and ass look like the gently rolling dunes of the Sahara and you get winded by a two minute beatoff, if you're in some way involved in the combat sports or even just watch a lot of MMA, there's a good chance you've told someone you're Gonna Get A Fight Soon.
Now some of you will protest that you're really in this for something deeper, some transformative thing that will unlock the Iron John buried deep inside. 46 and 2 by Tool is playing on your ipod this very minute. There's dozens of uncreative articles about the way MMA can put you in touch with your inner he-man and also the softening of today's man into effeminate poofs with an unspoken attack on feminism riding its coattails like a needy child.
In response I say, fuck off. MMA isn't going to get you in touch with your inner caveman because there's nothing there for you to get in touch with. Your image of primal masculinity is a Gigerian synthetic monstrosity, leaking its own contradictions in an acidic mess all over the floor. But better writers than me have handled this subject before, so I won't tangent too much.
Reading this, some of you are going to get your dicks in a knot because i'm calling in to question the validity of your vision quest you set to Bodies by P.O.D. What you (we) do is hard. There's sweat and punching involved. Silly fat men sit on your head. And yeah, training a legitimate combat sport is hard and competing is even harder. But there are lots of hobbies that are just as hard/dangerous: ballet, tennis, sculpting (get an injury casting brass and tell me how bad your tweaked shoulder felt in comparison!), crossdressing, archery, noodling, deep diving. And while these are certainly things to boast about, they're not held up as life changing affirmations of how hairy our nuts are.
Things that are harder and/or more dangerous than training or competing in MMA: giving birth, living to twenty in Palestine, living through/with AIDS, cancer, Parkinson's or any other disabling long term condition, being homeless, raising a kid on food stamps, being a political prisoner, there are so many more. But young men aren't bragging about how all that hanging around under cell phone towers and eating irradiated meat is gonna pay off any day now.
What we have to do then is accept that what we're in an unusual hobby that's no more badass than any other. Repeat sincerely to yourself after every practice that what you're doing is no more worthy of praise than someone who crochets a sweater, makes scented candles or does an all night all camp revue. Do this like it was a Hail Mary and you got caught doing something unspeakable into the unconsecrated host. Or whatever's sacred to you, you get the idea.
Only then can you start to really enjoy this shit. That's when the inherent fun in the game can come out. That's when you'll train like a maniac, when you let go of the image you're striving for. As i'm typing this I have a bursitis so bad that my right knee looks like it's going through puberty and I want to get out there and try the stuff from this Demian Maiah DVD so bad it's like i've got to pee. I'm going to immobilize my knee and roll tomorrow and the day after and lift weights on the weekend. This injury was caused by grappling, even worse injuries have been caused by it in the past, and more are statistically inevitable and I don't care because i've done my best to say goodbye to my inner desire for badassitude. There he is, walking away into the sunset, his trenchcoat blowing in the breeze that exists specifically for it.
